


Les étoiles danseraient pour nous

by thehistorygeek



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bilingual Character(s), French Jean Kirstein, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Minor Use of Other Languages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 66,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehistorygeek/pseuds/thehistorygeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean was used to moving--it was a regular occurence in his life, and had been since he was young. He had lived in almost every corner of France, from Cherbourg to Paris to Istres. But he never thought he'd end up on a plane headed 7600 kilometres from everything he'd ever known, to a military town in the middle of the United States. </p><p>He thought every day of his time in the US would be the worst of his life... But then he met Marco Bodt, a freckled American with a love for Romance languages and astronomy.</p><p>
  <em>Et les étoiles dansé.</em>
</p><p>And the stars danced.</p><hr/><p>Based on the <a href="http://balliste.tumblr.com/post/76105817207/what-did-you-say-i-i-said-uh-today-was">AU created by balliste</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Briller

**Author's Note:**

> This is hands down the longest chapter of anything I've written ever and I'm really nervous about it wowwow
> 
> But!! like the summary said, this is based of [this beautiful fanart by balliste](http://balliste.tumblr.com/post/76105817207/what-did-you-say-i-i-said-uh-today-was) so credit for the idea goes to her!!
> 
> Right okay some things I need to go over... French is used quite a bit in this story for something that's written in English. like it's everywhere (fic title, chapter title, lyrics at the beginning, it's in the summary...) but that's because French is a pretty big thing in this story. In the actual story it's only ever used in dialogue, I believe, and most of it's translated almost right after it's said (there's going to be handy-dandy glossary in the end notes for stuff that isn't translated though).
> 
> Also there are some parts that maybe kind of might show Americans in a negative light?? Though it really all depends on your personal opinion. Honestly, this story is hugely hugely based on my own experience of being a foreigner in the states, so a lot of this stuff is based on what happened to me while living there (the whole reason Jean is living there is the whole reason I lived there too) 
> 
> The town this is set in is based on the town I lived in while I was in the us, and you could probably easily find out what it is with a simple google search. I'm not going to completely stick to its layout, though, because I don't live there now and it's been a while since I did. so yeah!!
> 
> Lastly, just for your convenience, here's a few translations:
> 
> Story Title: The Stars Would Dance for Us
> 
> Chapter Title: Shine
> 
> Lyrics: I saw you from a lonely eye  
> A foot in the arena to please you  
> And shining at the looks that I ignored  
> Yours counts more than the others  
> Even if you don’t realize  
> And I would do anything to know your purpose

  _Je t’ai vu d’un œil solitaire_

_Le pied dans l’arène pour te plaire_

_Et briller aux regards que j’ignorais_

_Le tien comptait plus que les autres_

_Même si tu ne t’en rendais pas compte_

_Et j’aurais tout faire pour connaître tes fins_

_-Golden Baby,_ Cœur de Pirate  

 

* * *

  

Jean let out a loud sigh, resting his cheek against his hand as he looked out the rental car window. It had been about three hours since their flight had landed in Kansas City, and Jean was already tired of how American everything was. They were surrounded by skyscrapers and tall buildings on both sides, and there were American flags flying off of every rooftop. His father had turned the radio onto a news station, the reporter speaking too quickly in English for Jean to really understand most of what they were saying.

“Jean, _tu regardes trés malcontent_.” His mother said, turning in her seat to look at him. You look really unhappy.

Catching his reflection in the window, Jean realized he was wearing a rather sour look on his face. It didn’t really surprise him, however, and he didn’t bother trying to soften it. He’d been in an almost incessantly bitter mood for the past several months—ever since his father had announced that they’d be moving to the US.  

“ _Juste fatigué_ ,” Jean muttered. Just tired. It wasn’t really a lie; they’d been travelling since 5am. Their plane had taken off at around 8am, and, after a twelve hour long flight, including a layover in New York, it had finally landed in Kansas City at around 8pm, Paris time. Then they had had to go through customs, retrieve their baggage, and get their rental car, which altogether took about three hours, which meant it was almost 11pm in France by the time they had actually left the airport, thoroughly exhausted.

The clock at the front of the car read 4:06pm.

Still, despite being the most tired he’d probably been in his entire life, the unhappy expression on Jean’s face was mostly due to the fact that he wouldn’t be going back to France for another year at the least; two at the most.

Jean was used to moving; his father was in the French military—it was something you had to get used to. They’d lived in almost every region of France, from big cities like Paris to smaller military bases. But they had always stayed in the country.

And, of course, the first time they do move out of the country, it had to be to a town in the American Midwest, right on the edge of the Bible Belt.

“It will not be as bad as you think, _mon chou_ ,” his mother said, obviously knowing what Jean was thinking. He had been making his unhappiness with the situation very clear for the past few months, and she didn’t suspect it would change anytime soon. Still, she tried. “You should be excited. Tomorrow we are going to see our new town and house, and your new school. Everything will be alright.”

“ _Ouais, ouais_...” Jean muttered, sinking further into his seat. His father had finally managed to find the hotel amongst the maze that was Kansas City, and the thought of finally being able to lie down in a bed made Jean feel even more tired than he already was.

When they had finally checked in and carried their luggage up to their room, Jean was pretty much ready to collapse. He all but fell into bed, and had no intentions of ever getting up again.

 

* * *

 

Jean woke up at around 5:30am the next morning. The sky was still dark, though the stars had started to fade and the moon had disappeared beneath the skyscrapers.

His father was already awake, sitting at the hotel room desk with his laptop open, and his mother was just starting to stir. Slowly, still groggy with sleep, Jean started to calculate what time it would be in France—something he figured he’d do a lot until the jet lag disappeared, just so he could know if the times he was awake at were reasonable or not.

Add seven to 5:30 and... it was 12:30pm in France.

“ _C’est midi_...” he muttered, burying his face into his pillow. It’s noon.

 

* * *

 

There were about two weeks left until school started. Jean would be attending the local high school, in eleventh grade. He didn’t understand why they had to start school in early August, seeing as he had started his summer break less than a month ago, but he supposed he would have to put up with it.

Their house was only about six minutes from the high school, and was already pre-furnished, as they were coming from overseas. It was a nice enough place to live--two floors, with light beige siding and a reasonably-sized, fenced-in backyard. The neighbourhood itself was the absolute pinnacle of American suburbia, filled with perfectly-kept green lawns, flower beds, and playing children. A lush, hill-filled forest surrounded it, which Jean’s mother had warned him almost immediately not to go near, at least not until it got colder, saying it was probably filled with poisonous snakes and ticks.

“ _Formidable_ …” Jean had muttered quietly to himself in response, kicking a rock off the driveway and into the yard. Wonderful.

Their things arrived two days after they did, all packed into a sea container and carried on a flat-bed truck. It didn’t take long to unpack, as they didn’t bring over any furniture, and by their fourth day in the US Jean and his parents had completely moved in. 

About a week before the start of school, Jean was made to take an “American Orientation Course”, held by the US Army Command and General Staff College, which was the whole reason he was stuck living in the States. The college offered a program for army officers from all over the world, which his father had been accepted into. Typically, the foreign officers would only stay for a year, though some were accepted into yet another year-long program, extending their stay in America to twenty-four months, instead of twelve. 

Jean really did not want to go the orientation course, but his mother made him, telling him that if she had to go to one, he did to. 

There were around five other teenagers in his class, all from different parts of the world. Once they had all arrived and taken their places around a long, rectangular table, they were told to, one by one, introduce themselves.

The first one to go was a rather tall, dark-haired boy seated near the head of the table, who looked around nervously at the others as he spoke. “ _Hallo_ ,” he said, his voice quiet, and Jean wondered if he had purposely spoken in his native language or not. “I’m Bertholdt, and I am from Germany.”

There was a chorus of only slightly enthusiastic, accented “hello’s”. Bertholdt, seemingly uncomfortable with the attention, turned to the person next to him, a beefy, blond boy, as if asking him to save him. By the way the boy placed a hand on Bertholdt's shoulder and leaned forward, ready to introduce himself, Jean assumed that the two knew each other; well enough to be able to tell when the other was unhappy, it seemed.

“Hi, I’m Reiner,” the blond said, giving everyone a small wave. Jean didn’t fail to notice the little sigh of relief that Bertholdt let out as the attention shifted from him. “I’m from Germany, too.”

Like before, there was a half-mumbled round of greetings, and then everyone turned to look at the person beside Reiner, a girl with long auburn hair tied back into a pony-tail. She had a pair of glasses resting on her head, and it was only after she moved her bangs aside that Jean realized it was actually a pair of shutter shades patterned with a Canadian flag. “Hey, I’m Sasha,” she said, looking at everyone with a wide grin on her face. “And I’m from Canada.”

After Sasha it was the turn of a very serious-looking, short blonde girl. “Hello,” she said, not really looking up from her hands as she absentmindedly picked at her nails, obviously bored—or at least trying to look bored—of the whole thing. “I am Annie, and I am from Russia.” She easily had the thickest accent of anyone in the group, and it made some of the things she said difficult to understand, at least for Jean.

It was his turn after her. He had silently gone over how he was going to introduce himself in his head several times; even though he’d been learning English since he was in primary school, he had never been particularly good with the language. “Hello, I am Jean,” he said, speaking more carefully than he needed to, enunciating each word as best as he could. “I’m from France.” Everyone gave him a quick wave, which he returned with a small smile.

The last person to go was a girl around Jean’s height, with tanned skin, a face full of freckles, and short dark brown hair. Like Annie, she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself very much, but she at least looked up at everyone as she spoke. “Hey,” she said, and it almost came out like an exasperated sigh. “I’m Ymir, from Australia.”

After that, the introductions were finished, and the rest of the two hours allotted for the class were rather boring and monotonous. The instructor passed out several sheets of paper, told them all about how America might be different from their country, and explained a few things that they might not know much about—mostly just the currency and units of measurement, like inches and Fahrenheit.

Sasha and Reiner were easily the loudest, most boisterous of the group. They were constantly making comments and cracking jokes, and by the end of the class were running around throwing a basketball at each other. Annie, on the other hand, didn’t say a single word to anyone unless directly spoken to. Bertholdt was very much the same, but it seemed his reasons were more because he was too shy to say anything; once or twice he had said something quietly to Reiner, though it had been in German. The only times Ymir really talked were to add a sarcastic comment to something somebody else said; other than that, she spent the entire time trying to discreetly use her phone.

By the time it was over, Jean didn’t really want to go back again. Of course, though, his mother would make him.

 

* * *

 

August 11th marked the first day of school.

It was a hot, stiflingly humid day. Despite being early in the morning, the sun was already up and shining by the time Jean left his house to go his bus stop, beating down on everything from above. There were only about five kids at his stop, including him, and they all talked rather loudly and obnoxiously for a group of teenagers who had had to be awake at 6:30am, probably for the first time in months. Jean, however, stood quietly by himself, toeing at the gravel beneath his feet with the tip of his shoe and wondering how awful the bus ride would be.

Jean hated school buses. They were always too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, and everyone was loud and liked to sit one to a seat, even if they’d be talking to their friend, who had decided to sit all by themselves one row up. This meant that, at least 50% of the time, there weren’t enough seats for everybody, and you had to sit with some random person you didn’t even know.

However, after the bus pulled up to the corner where the group of teens was waiting, its wheels screeching to a stop, he managed to get his own seat for the, thankfully, short ride to the school. Everyone climbed off rather slowly when they arrived at the school, and several students meandered outside in large groups, talking excitedly to each other about their summers.

The school looked very much like it had two weeks ago, when Jean had visited with his parents for a tour. Everything had seemed new and impressive, like it had just been touched up. It still had that same air now, as Jean walked through the front doors, though he wondered how long it would last, now that the school year was starting.

When he had gone for the tour, the woman in charge, a guidance councillor, had told him that there would be lists up on the walls with each student’s name and homeroom number on it. Sure enough, just like she said, there were several tall pieces of paper pinned up on the walls of the school’s main entrance, with over a dozen students crowded around them.

Walking over, Jean managed to push his way through to the front, elbowing several people out of the way. There were a few angry glares, and one rather annoyed “fuck off” from some kid, but Jean ignored them. Quickly scanning the list, he found his name listed near the middle of the K’s—Kirschtein, Jean; homeroom number 217.

Shoving his way back out of the crowd, he wandered the halls for a while, trying to remember which general area room 217 would be in. Weaving through the groups of students clustered throughout the halls, he eventually found a staircase and was just about to climb up when he heard someone call his name.

“Jean!” Sasha ran up to him, barrelling past three girls, who shot her annoyed looks that she ignored. “I’ve been looking for you!”

“Why?” Jean asked, flinching a bit as she threw her arm around him.

“Because you’re someone I actually know here,” Sasha explained, giving him a wide grin. “I was looking for the others, too, but I haven’t seen any of them yet. Have you?”

Jean shook his head.

Sasha shrugged. “We’ll probably find them eventually,” she said. “But anyways, what class do you have?”

“I’m in classroom 217.” Jean said, his tongue fumbling slightly over the number names as he slowly started up the stairs.

“Really? I think I’m in there later.” Sasha bounded up after him. “I’m pretty sure it’s English… Which is kind of weird, because I figured they’d put you in an ESL course.”

“ESL?”

“English as a Second Language.” Sasha said. “It’s like a class for people who don’t speak English as their native language.”

“Oh.” He guessed that made sense. Especially for him, considering his English skills were definitely not up to par—he’d been having trouble just following what Sasha was saying.

She shrugged again. “Maybe you are in one,” she said. “It could be something you do during another period. Whatever. But I think I know where 217 is—come on.”

Jean let Sasha lead him up the rest of the stairs and down a long hallway, which branched into a smaller corridor, lined with only a few doors. Students milled in and out of the classrooms, talking happily to each other and laughing.

“Ah, yep! There it is!” Sasha said, motioning to the first door on the left. A small plaque beside the entrance had the number 217 printed on it, followed by the teacher’s name—a confusing jumble of letters Jean didn’t bother to try and decipher or pronounce—and the subject, which, as Sasha had thought, was English.

“Thank you.” Jean said, and she beamed up at him.

“No problem!” she said. “I had better go find my own class now, though. Have fun!” With a little wave, she spun on her heel and started walking away.

“Bye!” Jean called after her, turning and walking into the door.

The class was almost full, so he assumed it was around the time when the bell rang. Most of the seats were taken, or claimed by a binder and pencil case, so he stood awkwardly near the doorway for a while, before finding an empty desk near the right side of the room.

The person sitting in the next seat, a boy with messy brown hair, was talking animatedly with two other people, who were both laughing. Jean didn’t really pay them any attention, instead looking up at the clock and wondering when class was going to start.

“Oh! Hey, you’re new!”

He jumped slightly at the sudden voice, right beside him. Looking over to see who had spoken, he saw that it was one of the kids that the scruffy-haired boy had been talking to, now leaning towards him with a kind smile on his face.

“Um... Yes.” Jean said, blushing slightly at how close the person’s face was to his.

The boy had lightly tanned skin that was covered in a multitude of freckles, stretching from his face down his neck to his arms and the tops of his hands. His hair was dark brown, shorter in the back with a middle-parted fringe, and his eyes were a warm coppery colour. They seemed to light up when he smiled, making his entire appearance look cheerful.

He was also probably one of the most attractive people Jean had ever seen.

“Where are you from?” the boy asked, tilting his head slightly in question.

“France,” Jean replied, turning his face a bit so they weren’t staring directly at each other.

“Whoa, really!?” the brunet cried, his smile somehow growing wider. The two friends that he had been talking to earlier leaned around him, both looking at Jean. “That’s so cool!”

Jean shrugged. “I guess,” he said. “It’s always just been normal for me.”

“So you speak French?” the messy-haired kid asked. The other person he’d been talking to, a boy with chin-length blond hair, gave him a rather incredulous look.

“They do speak French in France, Eren,” he said, before looking over at Jean. “Are one of your parents part of the program they have going at the Command and Staff College?”

Jean nodded.

“Oh, I’m Marco, by the way,” the freckled boy said. “That’s Armin,” He motioned towards the blond one, who gave him a small smile. “And that’s Eren, like Armin said.” He pointed at the other boy, who was too busy pouting at Armin to notice Marco introducing him.

“My name is Jean.” Jean said, smiling at them all.

Just then, the teacher walked in, letting out an annoyed huff as she walked to her desk, as if she hadn’t been having a very good morning. She stopped, however, when she spotted Marco and Armin, eyeing them suspiciously. “Oi!” she called, causing almost everyone in the class to jump in surprise. “Bodt! Arlert!” Both Marco and Armin spun around, only to meet the scolding gaze of the teacher. “Neither of you are in this class this period. If I remember correctly, you’re both in my AP English class, which is this afternoon. So I suggest you go and run pretty quickly, if you don’t want to be late for your _actual_ first class.”

“Yes, Ms. Brzenska!” They both replied, almost in perfect unison, before hurrying out from amidst the desks and towards the front of the room.

“See you later, Eren!” Armin called as he ducked out the door, Marco in suite. There was the sound of one set of footsteps rushing down the hall, but Marco suddenly stuck his head back into the class, giving Jean a wide grin.

“Bye, Jean!” he called, before disappearing again, followed by the bell only a few seconds later.

The teacher—Ms. Brzenska—shook her head slightly, sighing a bit in exasperation, before going the rest of the way to her desk and placing her bag down. After introducing herself and taking attendance, she handed out the class syllabus, as well as everyone’s locker number, combination, and schedule for the rest of the day. Jean only quickly glanced at his, seeing that he had science next, then tucked it away in his binder.

They all went over the syllabus together, with the teacher explaining what units they would be covering, different books they would be reading, and how much each part of the curriculum would be worth to the their grade. Halfway through her explanation of the Media unit, however, she paused, and looked over at Jean.

“Jean!” she cried. “You’re Jean, right?”

He nodded, wondering why she was suddenly yelling at him, interrupting her own spiel on media. She just nodded, before looking at someone on the other side of the room and pointing at them.

“And you’re Bertholdt?”

Jean turned in his seat, looking to where Bertholdt was sitting, tapping his pencil on his desk. He hadn’t even noticed the German boy when he walked in, which was surprising, given his tall stature. When Bertholdt glanced over at him, Jean gave him a small smile, which he returned with a slight nod.

“Great!” Jean looked back to the front of the room when Ms. Brzenska started talking again. “I almost completely forgot to tell you guys that you’re signed up for the ESL course. You’re still going to be in this class, of course, but starting tomorrow you’ll be going down to the ESL room every second day for the entire period. It’s more like extra help than a completely different class.”

“Isn’t ESL English as a Second Language?” someone called from the back of the room. “Does that mean they don’t speak English?”

Jean sighed. “I actually do speak English,” he said, rather loudly. “It’s just not my first language.”

“Then what’s your first language?” someone else asked.

“French.” Jean replied, only turning in his seat slightly to look at the person. “I’m from France.”

“What about you, Mr. Super-Tall?” they asked, looking over at Bertholdt.

That question sparked a flame which erupted into a loud stream of inquiries aimed at Jean and Bertholdt. A large amount of them were, honestly, probably some of the stupidest questions Jean had ever heard—things like “Did you have running water?” “Is there electricity in Germany?” “Isn’t France in Asia?” “Say cheese omelette in French.” It was almost as if these kids had never looked at a map in their entire lives, or done any sort of reading ever.

Ms. Brzenska drew the line when somebody asked Bertholdt if he was a Nazi.

“Ok, everyone!” she cried, smacking a yard stick against her desk before placing her hands on her hips and glaring at them all. “Sit down, and shut up! That’s more than enough questions.” Glancing between Bertholdt and Jean, she asked, “Are you two all good with the ESL thing?”

When they nodded, she added, with a bit of a sigh, “I hope all those questions haven’t made you hate everyone on the very first day.”

Once all the students had settled down and stopped talking, they got back to discussing the syllabus, and the rest of the class passed by slowly.

 

* * *

 

Jean’s science class was on the complete other side of the school, so he almost had to run to his locker in order to drop off his stuff, grab a new binder, and make it on time.

The class was rather small, with only around fifteen students, none of whom he recognized, though the room itself was quite large. He sat down in the first empty seat he saw, right by the door, as everyone else walked around talking to each other.

The teacher, a medium-heighted person with long brown hair tied back in a tail and a set of large glasses resting on their nose, was rummaging through their desk, looking for something. They stopped, however, when the bell rang, straightening and grinning at everyone.

“I guess it’s time to start class!” they said, walking out from behind their desk and standing at the front of the room. “As most of you know, I’m Hange, and I’m the grade eleven science teacher!”

They seemed like one of the most enthusiastic teachers Jean had ever seen, talking animatedly to everyone with an overexcited tone in their voice.

“Unfortunately, however,” they continued. “I can’t find the syllabuses I made.” They frowned at their desk, which was covered in papers and pencils, with a laptop stacked on top of everything.

“I think you put them on the lab counters,” a small, petite girl with long blonde hair said, raising her hand and pointing towards the counters in the back of the room.

“Oh!” Hange cried, walking over to the counters where, sure enough, a stack of papers was sitting. “Thank you, Christa!”

Grabbing the papers, they started handing one out to everyone, talking happily the whole time about how great the following year was going to be. Right before they finished, however, the door opened and in walked Marco. He caught sight of Jean almost immediately, and gave him a big goofy grin; Jean felt his face heat up, and he quickly waved at Marco before looking down at his desk, pretending to be interested in what the syllabus sitting in front of him said.

“Marco!” Hange cried, turning and raising an eyebrow at the boy as he walked into the classroom. “And why are you late?”

“I had to stay after class to talk to Mr. Smith because I was late to his class.” Marco explained, staring down at the ground and shuffling his feet. It was obvious he wasn’t very used to being interrogated by teachers, or to getting in trouble.

“Late to your first two classes at the very beginning of the school year?” Hange shook their head. “I really thought Marco ‘Four-AP-Classes’ Bodt would be more diligent.”

“I’m sorry...” Marco muttered, fiddling with the zipper on his pencil case.

Hange sighed. “Go take a seat,” they said. “It sounds like you got a hard enough time from Mr. Smith, so I won’t be too mean.”

Marco nodded, taking the syllabus Hange offered him before going and sitting at the desk next to Jean.

“It’s mostly your fault I was late,” Marco said quietly to Jean when Hange started reading the schedule out loud to everyone.

Jean looked over at him, blinking. “...What?” he asked. “My fault?”

“I was late to my first class because I was talking to you,” he said. “And I was late to this class because I was late to that class. So it’s your fault.”

Jean smirked at him, before letting out a little laugh. “I am sorry,” he said, shooting a quick look at the teacher to make sure they hadn’t heard him. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

Marco grinned. “I’m saying it’s all your fault.”

“Everything?” Jean asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Everything.” Marco confirmed, nodding.

“Sorry, but no.” Jean shook his head.

Marco was about to answer when Hange’s voice cut him off.

“Marco! Jean!” they called. “Do you two mind? You can get all chummy-chummy buddy-buddy after class. But right now we’re going over this very lovely syllabus I took the time to write out.”

“Yes, Hange,” Marco said, looking down at the syllabus. Jean did the same, mumbling a quiet apology to the teacher.

“Good.” Hange nodded, going back to reading about the different chapters in the textbook they’d be studying.

About ten minutes later, when they had finished looking over everything and had been given an information sheet to fill out, Jean turned to Marco, a slightly confused expression on his face.

“Okay, what does ‘chummy-chummy buddy-buddy’ mean?” he asked, and Marco laughed.

He had one of the nicest laughs Jean had ever heard.

 

* * *

 

“So you’re actually from France?”

Jean looked over at the kid sitting across from him, a boy with short, bristly dull-brown hair, and nodded. He had just finished his fourth class of the day, history, and was sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch with Marco and several of the boy’s friends, as well as Sasha.

“That’s so cool,” the kid, whom Marco had introduced as Connie, said. “Say something in French.”

“Baguette.” Jean muttered in a deadpan tone, leaning against his hand. People had been asking him to say things in French all day, and it was getting a little annoying.

Connie frowned at him. “Say something that’s actually French,” he said.

“Baguette is a French word.” Jean pointed out, smirking.

“Here, I’ll say something,” Sasha said, resting her hand on Connie’s shoulder. “ _Tu es vraiment un idiot._ ”

Jean raised an eyebrow at her. “I didn’t know you spoke French.” He said, while Connie quickly glanced between the two of them, repeatedly asking what Sasha had just said.

Sasha shrugged, pushing Connie away when he leaned over towards her. “I’m from Canada; we speak French there,” she said. “I’ve been learning French since like grade one. _Tu n’es pas aussi spécial que tu penses._ ” You’re not as special as you think.  

He scowled at her. “ _Je ne pense pas ça_ …” he muttered. I don’t think that.

Sasha just grinned, leaning back and popping a grape into her mouth.  

“Can you two speak English?” Eren asked, looking up from the questionably-coloured green beans that he had been poking at with a fork. “You make me feel like you’re talking about me.”

Jean snorted slightly. “Hardly...” he mumbled, though it was mostly to himself.

“I dunno, I like how it sounds,” Marco said, a small smile gracing his lips. “It’s so... flowy.”

“It’s supposed to sound like that.” Sasha explained. “The words should flow into one another.”

Marco hummed quietly, nodding. “I wish I could speak French,” he said. “It’s such a pretty language.”

Jean shrugged. “It’s not that pretty when you are being yelled at in it, trust me.” He said.

“But English is so boring...” Marco said with a sigh. “How do you say that in French?”

“That something is boring?” Jean asked, thinking for a few seconds before answering. “ _C’est ennuyeux_.” 

 _“Say an-wee-uh…”_ Marco repeated, and Jean couldn’t help but laugh at the butchered pronunciation.

 _“_ _C’est ennuyeux _.” He said again, this time slower. “Ehn-uie-yuh.”__

 _“Ahn-uie-uh._ ” Marco dragged out each syllable as he spoke, his tongue tripping over the foreign word.

“Eh, that’s a bit better,” Jean said, grinning a little. “It’s still pretty bad, though.”

Marco frowned, and Eren let out a rather loud groan.

“That’s enough French lessons for today.” he said. “Because seriously... Does anyone else think Hange got even crazier over the summer?”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day was slow and boring. Jean had four classes in the afternoon, which included a study period at the very end, and nothing really exciting happened. When the final bell rang, he collected his stuff and went to wait for his bus outside, under one of the tall oak trees that dotted the school’s property.

People ran around him, yelling and laughing with their friends. Sighing, Jean pulled out his headphones, sticking them in his ears and turning his music up loudly—hearing people scream in English all day was giving him a headache. As the music filled his ears, he quietly mouthed along to the lyrics of the song, bouncing back and forth on his heels and watching his feet.

_Et si je compter, je compterai pour toi,_

_Je te conterai mes histoires._

_Et je compterai les moutons, pour toi..._

“Hey, Jean!”

Marco was suddenly in front of him, grinning and waving his hands to catch his attention.

 Jean pulled out one his earphones, raising an eyebrow at him. “What are you doing?” He asked.

“I came to say hi,” Marco explained, shrugging. “You were standing all alone. And I wanted to ask how your first day was!”

Jean had to smile at how cheerful he was. “It was fine.” he said. “Better than I thought it would be.”

Marco’s grin grew wider. “It must be weird going to a school that’s completely in your second language, though.” He said. “But I hope it won’t be too bad.”

“I don’t think it will be.” Jean said, nodding.

“Well if you need any help,” Marco added. “With English or science or whatever, I’d be more than happy to give you a hand.”

“Thank you.” Jean gave him a small smile, looking down at his phone and flicking through the songs, trying not to blush as Marco looked at him, a beautifully content expression on his face. They stood in silence until the first few buses pulled up, and Marco had to go.

Jean watched him as he walked towards his bus and climbed on, before turning and looking for his own bus.

“ _Merde..._ ” he mumbled quietly to himself, running a hand through his hair.

 

* * *

 

Jean was pounced on the second he walked through the door by his mother, telling him that his sister was on the phone and wanted to talk to him.

“ _Je ne veux pas lui parler_.” He said, trying to slide past his mother and upstairs. I don’t want to talk to her.

Jean’s sister, Aimée, was six years older than he was, and had been an absolute menace to him since he was about two years old. Throughout his entire childhood, all they did was fight and yell and insult each other. When he was nine, after what Jean came to call “the boyfriend incident”, it only got worse, with Aimée throwing the absolute worst insults she could at him. His parents all but forced her to go to university as far away as possible, just so they could get some peace and Jean would stop locking himself in his room, crying over the things she called him.

It  had been well over five years since Aimée had gone to university, and the two siblings had hardly spoken more than a few civil sentences to each other since. When she had come home for holidays and breaks, Jean had avoided her like the plague, and had only talked to her when absolutely necessary. After she graduated and began working as a nurse at a Parisian hospital, her visits thankfully became fewer and further in between. They had had a conversation over the phone less than two weeks ago, however, just after Jean and his parents had moved to the US, and it had been their first in two years; he still hadn’t recovered from it.

“Jean,” his mother said, an almost warning tone in her voice as she blocked him from the stairs. “ _Parles avec ta sœur. S’il te plaît._ ” Talk with your sister. Please.

Jean groaned, dropping his backpack by the door. His mother gave him a small, apologetic smile, before stepping away and letting him go to the kitchen, where the phone was resting on the counter.

Holding it up to his ear, he asked, “ _Qu’est-ce que tu veux_?” What do you want?

“Wow,” Aimée said, and he could just see the expressions she was making—one of mock surprise, as if she wasn’t expecting him to be unhappy over having to talk to her. “That is not a very nice way to start a conversation, J.”

Jean shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it. “ _Je sais que tu ne soucies pas_ ,” he said. I know you don’t care.

“ _Bien, excusez moi_ ,” she said, and Jean noticed that she used the same voice she always did when she tried to make herself out to be innocent. “I just wanted to talk to my little brother, and ask him how his first day at an American school was.”

“It was fine,” Jean said, hoisting himself up onto the counter and sitting down. “Not very exciting. But do you not have better things to do than talk to me? Like, I don’t know, your job.”

“I am hurt that you would try to get rid of me,” Aimée said. “But I am on break right now, so do not worry.”

Jean didn’t try and hide the loud sigh that escaped past his lips. “Well if there is nothing else you want to talk about, can I go?” he asked.

“Mm, _d’accord_ ,” Aimée said. “ _Au revoir, pédé_.”

He hung up on her.

 

* * *

 

 _Pédé_.

The word ran laps in Jean’s mind as he lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It wasn’t the first time his sister had called him that, and it wouldn’t be the last. It had always been a word he had heard tossed around casually, as if it meant nothing and hurt no one. The same was true at his new school, where kids threw the English equivalent at each other as a joke.

And even though none of the comments were directed at him, specifically, it felt like they were. As he walked through the halls and someone behind him yelled about how that one person was “such a fag”, he quickened his pace, and never looked back, trying not to let his anger show on his face.

Jean had come to terms with his sexuality during his last year of junior high, right before he turned fifteen. The first time he realized, however, that he wasn't straight was when he was nine, during the “boyfriend incident”. Aimée had brought home her first boyfriend, Dominique, and Jean had flat-out told everyone how cute he thought he was, and had then proceeded to ask him to marry him.

His sister had been the first one to tell him that he was wrong to think that. She had called him a _pédé_ , and she and her boyfriend had laughed at how “silly” he was. Even though Jean hadn’t known what the word meant back then, he had sat in his room and cried for hours.

After that, every time Dominique saw him, he’d call him _le petit pédé_. His sister did it, too, whenever their parents weren’t around and she really wanted to upset him. By the time he was eleven and his father’s job was sending them across the country, Jean never wanted to see Dominique ever again.

He isolated himself. He stopped talking to people, and for the first two years of junior high he didn’t have any friends.  He beat himself down and pushed any thoughts that his sister would mock him for to the back of his mind. He didn’t think about the fact that he might be gay. He told himself that he couldn't be—he liked girls, so there was no way that he could be gay. But he still made sure it all stayed buried underneath piles and boxes of worthless memories—a long car drive to Cherbourg when he was seven; hiking through a forest in Mercantour National Park; sitting on the back porch of his grandparents’ house eating ice cream.

But as he got older, it only got worse and harder to ignore. When he was thirteen he got a crush on the boy who sat next to him in math class, and it got so bad he could barely even look at him without blushing. Eventually, he started refusing to barely even say a word to the kid, and panicked when he had to be closer to him than absolutely necessary.  

And then, that summer, they moved. Aimée had gone off the university, and Jean began to relax more. He put cracks into the walls he had spent years building to protect himself against his sister’s abuse, and actually made some friends. A few months after that, he read about a term online that he'd never heard before—bisexuality. He realized that was exactly what he was, and everything seemed to get so much better. 

Then, two years later, he kissed his friend Étienne, and was pretty much outed to everyone at their school. Jean accepted it, even though they all insisted that he was gay, and ignored his attempts to correct them. But he was tired of making himself miserable, and that’s what he was doing by trying to convince himself and everyone around him that he was straight. He let everyone at school think what they wanted and, a few weeks after his fifteenth birthday, he came out to his parents.  

They were both very loving and supportive, and promised they wouldn’t tell Aimée when he asked them not to. By that point it had been years since she had moved out, but whenever he saw her she would still mock and insult him. He just didn’t want her to know—not yet.

Life carried on. Jean began to realize he might not ever work up the courage to actually come out to his sister. Despite all that happened, and after everything he had discovered about himself, he couldn’t bear the thought of Aimée calling him a _pédé_ and having the satisfaction of knowing it was true.

Then he had moved to the United States with his parents, and now he was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to stop thinking about the stupidly kind, freckled American he had met only twelve hours ago.

 

* * *

 

Jean was in a sour mood for the rest of the day and for most of the following morning. The ESL teacher, a cheerful young woman with cropped, strawberry-blonde hair named Ms. Ral, asked him several times throughout their hour-long class together if something was wrong, but he always told her it was all fine.

Along with Bertholdt, both Reiner and Annie were also in the class. It was held in one of the smallest rooms of the school, with just enough space for around ten desks. The four of them managed to spread themselves around the room as thinly as possible, with Bertholdt and Reiner near the far wall, Jean in almost the exact middle, and Annie as far away from everyone as she could be.

One of the first things Ms. Ral did was ban Bertholdt and Reiner from speaking German, claiming that they would never get better at English if they spoke in their native language all the time. Then she made them take what she called a “diagnostic quiz”, just to see how much they knew.

Jean was rather surprised to find, at the end of class, that he was actually not the worst at English—Annie was, having gotten only 51% of the questions right, compared to Jean’s 55%. Reiner was by far the best, with 83%, and Bertholdt was right in the middle with 68%. Ms. Ral finished off the class by handing out the books that they would be reading in their English classes, telling them that they would be getting a head start by beginning them a week before everyone else.

Their homework, she said, would be to start reading the books and to go over their quizzes with someone else and try and find where they went wrong and why.

 

* * *

 

“You’re good at English, Marco, yeah?”

Jean looked over at the freckled boy, who was currently bent over his biology textbook, inspecting the diagram of an animal cell they were supposed to be labeling.

“Hm?” Marco hummed, looking up at the sound of his name and glancing at Jean.

“You,” Jean said, pointing at him. “You’re good at English. Yeah?”

Marco raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” he said, shrugging. “Ms. Brzenska says I’m one of the best students she’s ever had, so I’m probably good at it?”

Jean nodded. “I need you to help me with my English,” he said. “We took a quiz in my ESL class, and I got _cinqu_ —wait, no... I got fif...?” He trailed off, mentally going over the English names for numbers—something he had always had trouble with. Five, fifteen... “Fifty. I got fifty-five percent.” God, math class was going to suck.

“Ooh, yikes,” Marco said, wincing slightly. “But I can definitely help you.” With a small grin, he added, “Maybe we can start with numbers.”

Jean scowled at him, flushing slightly and turning to focus his attention on his desk. “I didn’t do the worst at least...” he grumbled, fiddling with the pages of his textbook.

Marco let out an airy, light-hearted laugh, giving Jean something of an apologetic look. “I’m sorry; I’m just teasing you.” He said, lightly placing his hand on Jean’s shoulder.

Jean had to smile.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, during lunch, Jean sat watching Marco as the boy flipped through his quiz. The pages were peppered with red ink, standing out amongst the white and black, marking whether his answers were right or wrong.

“Have you looked over the ones you got wrong?” Marco asked, and Jean shook his head. They hadn’t gotten the quizzes back until the very end of class, so he hadn’t had time. Marco nodded. “Okay, well, it seems like you did the worst on the more complicated questions, especially the ones that were based around reading a passage on something.”

“So...” Jean said, going back over what Marco just said in his mind and making sense of his words. “I did bad on the hard parts?”

“Yeah,” Marco said, giving him a small smile. “That’s understandable, too. English _is_ your second language. There are some native speakers who would’ve had trouble with this quiz.”

“Like Connie.” Eren said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere and sitting down. He was met with a disapproving glare from Armin, who had been right behind him, and a scolding comment from a girl with short black hair Jean didn’t recognize. The two sat down at the table, as well, sliding into the spots beside Eren.

“Oh, you haven’t met Mikasa, have you, Jean?” Marco asked, gesturing to the girl, who gave him a little wave.

“It’s nice to meet you.” She said.

Jean nodded, not exactly sure how he was supposed to respond. She didn’t seem to mind his silence, however, and instead turned towards Eren and Armin, starting up a conversation about what sounded like the recent topics in a geography class.

“So, back to your quiz,” Marco said, drawing Jean’s attention to him. “We can through all the questions you got wrong from the beginning, and try and figure them out together. Sound good?”

“Yeah, it sounds fine,” Jean said, leaning over slightly to get a better look at the paper sitting in front of Marco, which he had turned back to the first page.

Slowly, they worked their way through the first set of questions, with Marco explaining the answers to Jean as best as he could. Right as they were about to start the second set, Sasha appeared, with Connie in tow, talking loudly about how amazing the potato wedges sold in the cafeteria were.

“They’re like little wedges of _heaven_!” She cried, setting herself down in the seat beside Marco, who chuckled at her, shaking his head. “No, Marco, I’m being serious. Have you ever tasted these? They’re works of _art_.”

“I’m sure Monet would shed tears over those potato wedges.” Marco assured her, before looking over at Jean and sliding his quiz back towards him. “Maybe we should do this later. You have to have it looked over by Thursday, right?”

Jean nodded.

“Why don’t you come over to my house after school?” Marco asked. “It’s only like a ten minute walk from here, and we can work on our other homework, too.”

“Uh, I guess,” Jean said, shrugging. “If it’s alright.”

Marco smiled widely at him. “Of course it is,” he said. “I offered, didn’t I?” He let out a little laugh, and Jean felt his heart flutter in his chest.

Blushing, he looked down at the paper in front of him, picking at the corner with his thumbnail.

“I’ll find you when school’s over and we can just walk there.” Marco continued. “Sound like a plan?”

Jean looked up at him, trying not to focus on the way his freckles were splattered around the corners of his eyes. “Uhm, yeah,” he said, nodding. “That sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

Marco lived in a brightly-coloured yellow house, only two blocks up from the school. It was surrounded by a small grove of trees, and the driveway leading up to the house was narrow and cracked; it was actually too small for any vehicles to park on, Jean noticed, spotting a small silver car sitting on the lawn, in between two oak trees. Inside, the house was cluttered and homely, with things like keys, glasses, and scribbled-on notepads littering every surface. There were antiques in every room, whether it be an old set ceramic jugs near the door or a spinning wheel in the corner, beside an over-stuffed burgundy couch.

It was a rather stark contrast to Jean’s own home, which seemed almost completely bare compared to Marco’s, where there was something hanging on every wall. Jean’s parents had never really been the type of people who enjoyed decorating; both of them liked everything simple and clean. Not only that, but they had only been allowed to bring over a certain amount of things with them from France, which had been dedicated to clothes and his mother’s extensive book collection.

“Mom!” Marco called as they walked in the door, which led right into the kitchen, going off and wandering around the house. “I’m home!”

Jean stood silently by the entryway, unsure of what to do. Marco hadn’t even taken his shoes off, and he could hear him walking from room to room, the soles of his sneakers tapping against the floor as he looked for his mother. If Jean didn’t take off his shoes when he went inside at home, his parents would skin him alive. 

“I’m upstairs, Marco!” A voice called, rather close to Jean. Looking around, he saw a small doorway carved into the wall beside him, revealing a set of stairs leading upwards. A few seconds later, there was the sound of someone coming down the staircase, and a skinny woman with an inordinate amount of freckles and curly brown hair streaked through with grey appeared beside him. She paused, blinking and looking Jean over.

“You’re not Marco.” She concluded, her voice tinged by a faint southern accent.

“No, I’m not.” Jean answered.

“I’m right here, Mom,” Marco said, walking back into the kitchen. “This is Jean. I go to school with him.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Bodt straightened, a cheerful smile stretching across her face. “You’re the French boy, aren’t you? Marco was telling me how there’s a bunch of foreign students in his grade this year.”

“That’s me.” Jean said, giving her a little nod.

“I was going to help him with his English work,” Marco explained. “He needs someone to look over a quiz he did in his ESL class.”

“Oh, okay,” Mrs. Bodt said, before turning to Jean. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

He nodded. He had texted his mother during lunch, and, after a bit of badgering (mostly her asking him if he thought his friend was cute), she had agreed to let him go, as long as he was back by 7pm.

“Good,” Mrs. Bodt said, before shuffling past the two. “It’s very nice to meet you, Jean.” She called over her shoulder, and he cringed slightly at the way she said his name, like it was John instead of Jean. She disappeared into the next room before he could correct her, however, and then Marco was pulling him upstairs.

Marco’s room was quite a bit different from the rest of his house. Everything was neat and tidy, with not a single item out of place. His bed was made perfectly, and a clean line of knick-knacks stood at the back of his desk. Even the posters that hung on his walls, most of them star charts of the night sky, were carefully and evenly placed. The most noticeable thing, though, was the large telescope resting on a tripod in the corner, right near the window.

“You like observing the stars?” Jean asked, walking over to the telescope.

“Yeah,” Marco said, coming up behind him. “I’ve always found them really interesting.”

“Hmm.” Jean hummed in agreement. “Do you know a lot about them?”

Marco nodded, smiling slightly to himself. “I’ve probably read every book out there on space.”

Jean smirked, leaning back and looking around the room. “What made you so interested in it?”

 “I guess it started when I was little...” Marco said. “I used to sit on our back porch with my dad, and he’d tell me about the stars and stuff.” He grew quiet for a moment, before shrugging. “I just find them really interesting, I guess.”

“I wish I was so dedicated to something.” Jean said.

Marco gave him a reassuring smile. “Sometimes it takes a while to find what we really like,” he said, sitting down on the edge of his bed. A few seconds of silence passed between them, before Marco spoke again. “Hey, Jean, what’s the French word for ‘star’?”

Jean smiled. “ _Étoile_ ,” he said, the word easily falling from his lips.

Unlike the day before, Marco didn’t try and copy the word. He just let it fill the quiet of the room, a content expression on his face. “What about ‘space’?”

“ _L’éspace_.”

Marco’s smile grew wider. “Just talk in French,” he said, looking to where Jean stood, leaning against his dresser. “Say whatever you want.”

Jean paused, thinking of something to say. He wanted to say something about the stars, or space, but looking at Marco, sitting there with his lips curved up at the corners into such a happy expression, all he could think of was, “ _T’as un trés beau sourire_.”

You have a very beautiful smile.

“What does that mean?” Marco asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Uh...” Jean stood there, panicking slightly as he tried to think of something to falsely translate it to, all the while reprimanding himself for flirting with Marco, who was almost definitely straight, _in French_. “I just said, that, um... Your room is very clean.”

Marco laughed. “Wow, it sounded a lot nicer in French,” he said. “Almost romantic.”

Jean froze, a small bit of fear momentarily gripping him before he realized that Marco didn’t speak French, and couldn’t possibly know what he really said.

“I guess everything sounds romantic in French, though,” Marco said, bringing Jean’s attention back to him. “It’s the language of love, right?”

Jean let out a little laugh, shaking his head. “I guess so.” He said.

There was a moment of silence between them.

“We should probably start our homework now,” Marco suggested eventually, reaching for his backpack and pulling it towards him. “As much I like hearing things said in French, this stuff needs to get done.”

Jean nodded, grabbing his own backpack and taking out his books. As he sat down in the desk chair, right across from where Marco was on the bed, he glanced up at the ceiling, and noticed something he had somehow overlooked when he first walked into the room.

There were dozens of glow-in-the-dark star stickers stuck to the ceiling, all patterned in the shapes of different constellations.


	2. Ennui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crunchy leaves, corn mazes, and starry Halloween nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention in the first chapter that if Jean is talking to anyone in his family and what's written is in English chances are they are actually speaking French. I just figured that blocks of French text would be tedious for most people to read. So, when Jean's talking to his family, unless it's said otherwise, just assume they're always talking in French.
> 
> Besides that I don't think I really have much else to add, other than some translations...
> 
> Chapter Title: Boredom
> 
> Lyrics: I forgot what boredom was  
> With your velvet words.  
> Your promises that I obsess over night and day.  
> I want to wake up each morning,  
> My body snuggled against yours.  
> I want my heart in your two hands,  
> So it beats with yours.  
> ( _L'air de rien_ basically means something like 'nonchalantly'?? I'm not sure if that's 100% correct though)

_J’ai oublié ce qu’était l’ennui_

_Avec tes mots de valeurs._

_Tes promesses qui m’obsèdent nuit et jour._

_Je veux me réveiller chaque matin,_

_Ton corps blotti contre le mien._

_Je veux mon cœur en tes deux mains,_

_Pour qu’il batte avec le tien._

_-L’air de rien,_ Margaux Avril

 

* * *

 

Jean rolled over on his bed, holding his textbook up above his face and squinting angrily at the description written beneath an enlarged picture of a fat cell. It was early September, almost a month after the start of school, and while he could honestly say his English had greatly improved in that short time span, mostly due to the ESL class and the extra help offered by Marco, he still had trouble remembering what some words or phrases meant.

Unfortunately, at this moment, “fat” was one of those words.

Before he started using English in his everyday life, Jean had never realized how easy it was to forget such simple words. But it really was. He couldn’t count the number of times he had to turn to Marco during any one of the classes they shared, trying desperately to describe what it was he was trying to remember. His attempts usually included exaggerated hand signals and muttering in French, which didn’t help Marco any. There had only been a handful of times that the freckled boy had actually managed to help, before Jean had given up and turned to Google Translate or Sasha for aid.

However, Marco was helpful when it came to explaining things himself—he simplified things for Jean so that they made sense, and it was almost like he had a thesaurus of easily understandable words right in his mind. And that was almost definitely the best way for things to be explained to Jean, as it expanded his English vocabulary much more than just directly translating things did.

But Marco, unfortunately, wasn’t there at that moment, and so Jean had to rely on the Internet and an online English-French dictionary to figure out what “fat” meant.

By the time he was finished reading the pages Hange had assigned for homework, two hours and several dictionary searches later, he didn’t want to look at another English word for at least a day.

But then his phone beeped, the alarm telling him someone had texted him. Flopping back against his pillows and grabbing his phone from the nightstand beside him, he saw Marco’s name lighting up his screen. Sliding his finger across the illuminated glass, he quickly unlocked his phone and scanned over Marco’s text.

**De: Marco**

**Hey have you finished the reading yet?**

Jean quickly tapped out a response, and then lied there, staring at the screen until Marco replied, only about a minute later.

**À: Marco**

**yeah i just finished. have you finished?**

**De: Marco**

**Not yet. It’s sooooo boring.**

**À: Marco**

**yeah it was**

Jean let out a loud puff of air through his nose, grinning slightly to himself. He couldn’t help but be unreasonably happy even when he just saw Marco’s name.

They texted back and forth for a while, mostly complaining about homework and then school, until Marco had to go. Even long after his phone had gone silent, Jean stayed lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about just how perfect the brown-eyed American seemed to be.

 

* * *

 

It had only taken two weeks for Jean to realize he had something of a crush on Marco.

He had tried to deny it at first, telling himself that flirting with his friend (which, he admitted, he had done) didn’t necessarily mean he had a crush on him. Jean had flirted with plenty of people before, though most of it hadn’t been with serious intentions. He had always been bad at trying to smooth-talk people, anyways.

But then, after the little event on the second day of school, Marco made a bit of a habit of asking Jean to just say random things in French—whatever he wanted. Jean could recite the weather in French and a huge smile would still spread across Marco’s freckled face, not caring too much what the foreign words meant. Of course, he would still ask what Jean had said, which would leave the French boy in a bit of a panic each and every time.

Because he never actually talked about the weather, or anything generic like that. Everything he said was about Marco himself—the colour of his eyes when the light hit them at the exact right angle, or the way his freckles were lightly dusted across the knuckles of his hands, or how his hair curled just slightly at the nape of his neck.

That was mostly how he figured out he had a crush on Marco—he couldn’t stop talking about him. There was just something about him that made Jean want to grab his hands and trace a pattern through every single one of his freckles. No matter how much he told himself not to, when Marco asked him to say something in French the words just tumbled out of Jean’s mouth. It was all an endless stream of brown eyes and thick hair and warm-hearted smiles.

However, he didn’t think he’d ever act upon the crush; not unless he had a good reason to believe Marco actually liked him back. Jean was an honest person, but he wasn’t stupid. And if being friends Marco was the best thing he was going to get, he was fine with that. He didn’t want to do anything that might ruin any sort of relationship with him.

He figured that, eventually, the crush would pass.

 

* * *

 

About two weeks later, Jean was sitting with Marco under one of the trees in the boy’s backyard, slowly working his way through The Lord of the Flies. Jean was often at Marco’s house doing homework with him, usually outside. Even though it was mid-September now, the weather was still warm; a crisp breeze was just starting to blow through the town, signifying that fall would be coming soon.  

Letting out a sigh, Jean set the book page-down in the grass. He’d been reading it since the first week of school, and was finally getting to the last few chapters. Marco looked over at him, glancing up from the notebook he was scribbling in, a small smile gracing his lips.

“Maybe you should take a break,” he suggested. “You’ve been reading for over an hour now. You still have math stuff to do, too.”

Jean groaned loudly, flopping back onto the ground. He landed right next to a small pile of slightly-orange leaves—ones that had fallen from the branches above him prematurely, blown off by a strong gust of wind or a late summer storm. Scowling, he picked one up by the stem, holding it up and twirling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“That’s a pretty leaf,” Marco said, leaning forward and propping his chin up on his hands. “It’s like a gradient between orange and green.”

“Hmm,” Jean hummed in agreement, watching as the two-toned leaf spun in between his fingers. “It looks like it was going to change colour, but got blown off before it could.”

Marco nodded. “Just like your hair,” he said, smirking slightly to himself.

“What do you mean by that?” Jean asked, turning to glare at him.

“I mean that your hair’s two different colours,” Marco said. “Blond and brown.”

“My hair doesn’t look like a leaf, though,” Jean said, pouting. “It sounded like you meant my hair got blown off before it could change colour.”

Marco laughed. “Well that’s not what I meant,” he said, shaking his head.

“You still compared my hair to a leaf.”

“Why is that such a bad thing?”

Jean scowled at him, not saying anything for a few seconds, before mumbling under his breath, “ _C'est rien_..."

Marco just grinned at him, looking back at his notebook and picking up his pencil, continuing to write whatever it was he was working on. A few moments of silence passed, as Jean continued spinning the leaf around in his hand, watching as it momentarily blocked out the sun leaking through the branches as it twirled.

“Oh, you know, I think Hugo’s Farm is opening soon,” Marco said after a while, perking up a bit.

Jean raised an eyebrow at him, hoisting himself up into a sitting position. “What’s Hugo’s Farm?” he asked.

“It’s this farm place just outside of town,” Marco explained. “It’s not an _actual_ farm, I don’t think; more like a business. But in fall they have this _huge_ corn maze and they sell things like pumpkins and gourds and apples. And then around Halloween they set up a haunted house. A bunch of people from school always get together and go every year.”

Jean nodded along as Marco spoke. “I’ve never been to anything like that,” he said, when the freckled boy was finished. “It sounds interesting.”

“You’re definitely coming when we go this year,” Marco said, tapping his pencil against his thigh and beaming at the French boy. “It’s gonna be _great_.”

Jean smiled at how enthusiastic he was. “I guess I have no choice now,” he said, and Marco nodded. Turning and picking up his book from where he’d left it, Jean brushed a stray blade of grass off the pages, before closing it and shoving it back into his bag, fishing out his math homework.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, in the early afternoon on the first Saturday of October, Marco pulled up in front of Jean’s house, driving his mother’s silver car. From where he was sitting in the front entryway, Jean saw him park in the driveway and get out, closing the door behind him. Jean had been ready to leave for at least half an hour now, prepared to walk out the door the minute Marco got there, knowing that if his mother tried to meet the freckled boy she’d end up talking to him about everything she possibly could.  

“ _Je pars maintenant_ , Maman!” Jean called as Marco started to make his way up the driveway, standing and walking to the door. I’m leaving now, Mom. Before he could even take a step, however, there was the sound of someone running down the stairs, and his mother calling for him to wait.

“ _Attends, attends, attends, attends_!” she cried, scurrying into the entryway. “ _Je_ _veux le voir avant que vous partez!_ ” I want to see him before you leave.

Jean moaned, running his hands over his face. “Why, Maman?” he asked, grimacing slightly when the doorbell rang. His mother shot him a small glare, before pushing past him and throwing the door open.

“Hello!” she cried, her accent heavy and obvious even on the simple word. A wide grin had spread across her face, and her arms were thrown open—something she had a habit of doing whenever she first met someone.

From where Jean was standing, he saw Marco jump back slightly at his mother’s loud voice, a slight look of terror flashing across his face for a second. He clearly wasn’t expecting a boisterous, overexcited Frenchwoman to open the door.

“Marco,” Jean said, slipping into the space between his mother and the other boy. “This is my mother.”

Marco hadn’t had the chance yet to meet Jean’s mom; whenever they studied or did homework together, it was always at Marco’s house, as it was much closer to the school than Jean’s and they could walk there after their last class.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Kirschtein,” Marco said, giving the woman one of his bright smiles, obviously recovered from the shock of such a loud greeting.

Jean’s mother was absolutely beaming. “The pleasure is all mine, Marco,” she said, sweeping past Jean once more and placing two quick kisses on the American boy’s cheeks. “But, please, call me Manon.”

Marco looked a little taken aback by the kisses, but didn’t say anything. Jean quickly pushed his way back in front of his mother, grabbing his hoodie off one of the pegs by the door.

“We’ll be going now, Maman,” he said, throwing the hoodie on and grabbing the door handle.

“ _Au revoir_ ,” she said, kicking out her foot and stopping the door before Jean could close it all the way. She held it open as the two walked down to the driveway and into Marco’s car, waving at them both. “Have fun!”

“Thank you!” Marco called, closing his door and sticking the keys into the ignition.

Jean didn’t say anything as he climbed into the car and buckled himself in, leaning against his seat and furrowing into his hoodie as Marco pulled out of his driveway and onto the road. There were a few seconds of silence before Marco spoke.

“Your mom seems nice,” he said.

Jean shrugged. “She’s loud.” He said, looking out the window as Marco turned onto the main street.

Marco laughed, nodding his head. “She is,” he agreed. Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, he added, “But that’s not always a bad thing.”

Jean smirked a little. “I guess not,” he said. “I am surprised we were able to leave so quickly, though... She loves to talk.”

They chatted idly as Marco drove, mostly about unimportant things. Marco had also agreed to pick up Connie and Sasha, so a large portion of their time was spent trying to find where the two lived. As they turned onto a street that Marco was absolutely sure was Connie’s (which was what he had said about the last street, as well), Jean’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Fishing it out, he saw a text from his mother lighting up the screen.

**De: Maman**

**Ton ami est vraiment attirant.**

_Your friend is really attractive._

As he was unlocking his phone to reply, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks, it vibrated again, and another text from his mother popped up.

**De: Maman**

**Même s’il a beaucoup de tâches de rousseur.**

_Even if he has a lot of freckles._

Jean scowled slightly at the screen as he typed out a response, his face growing even warmer.

**À: Maman**

**J’aime ses tâches de rousseur.**

_I like his freckles._

His mother’s response came about a minute later, after Marco had let out a triumphant “aha!”, having finally found Connie’s house.

**De: Maman**

**Bonne chance ;)**

Jean didn’t answer, shoving his phone back into his pocket and watching as Connie burst out the door and bounded down the steps of his front porch to the waiting car. He jumped into the back seat, offering the two an excited greeting as Marco pulled back onto the road.

“So we’re going to go pick Sasha up now, yeah?” Connie asked, leaning forward and resting his elbow on Jean’s seat. “Whoa, Jean! Dude, your face is read as a tomato! You okay?”

Jean scowled at Connie, burying his face even deeper into the neck of his hoodie and mumbling something about being perfectly fine.

Marco glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised. "Your face is pretty red," he observed. "At least the part that I can see. Are you sick or something?"

"No!" Jean cried, a little harsher than intended. Marco winced slightly, and he sighed, mumbling, "I'm sorry... I'm fine, okay?" 

“Alright.” Marco nodded, before turning just slightly to look at Connie and answer his previous question about Sasha. “Yeah, we—hey! Put your seat belt on!” He glared at the boy, who was now sitting in the middle of the back seat, out of the corner of his eye. “There’re always cops around here, and I don’t wanna get stopped.”

Connie scowled at the back of Marco’s head, but shuffled back to where he was sitting before and pulled the seat belt across his chest, clicking it into place. After a few moments of glowering silence from the two, during which Jean just sat there, his eyes barely peeking over his sweater, Connie spoke again.

“So who else is going?” he asked, propping his chin up on the back of Jean’s chair.

“We’re meeting Eren, Armin, and Mikasa there,” Marco said. “I’m pretty sure Christa’s going.” Turning to Jean, he asked, “Do know if those two guys are going? Bertholdt and Reiner?”

Jean shrugged, finally pulling some of the fabric from his face.. “Reiner might,” he said. “And if he does, he’ll probably drag Bertholdt along.”

Marco nodded. A few minutes later they arrived at Sasha’s house, and Connie jumped out of the car to get her. He appeared again after several seconds, the Canadian girl in tow. The two of them piled into the car, and they were off, this time heading for Hugo’s Farm.

There were several other cars sitting in the parking lot when they arrived at the farm. It didn’t take long for Marco to find a space, however, right beside what Connie announced as Armin’s car. After paying the entry fee at the gate, and after Sasha bought herself a candy apple, the four of them wandered around the farm, looking for anyone they might know.

From what Jean could see, the corn maze was huge, like Marco had said. It took up most of the left side of the property, and seemed to stretch even further beyond that. They found Armin, Eren, and Mikasa sitting by the entrance to the maze, all sharing a bag of cotton candy.

“See, I told you we weren’t early,” Armin said, giving Eren a pointed look.

“Yes, we were,” the brown-haired boy moaned, leaning to the side and resting his head on Mikasa’s shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for like ten minutes.”

“It hasn’t even been five minutes.” Mikasa said, shooing him off of her. Eren glared at her, before snatching the bag of cotton candy from her hands and shoving a handful of the fluffy sugar into his mouth.

“Is anyone else here yet?” Marco asked.

“Christa just texted me,” Mikasa replied, digging around in her bag for a few seconds, before pulling out her phone and unlocking it. “She said she’ll be here in a few minutes. She brought that one girl—what’s her name? The Australian one?”

“Ymir,” Jean said, kicking at a rock buried in the dirt. “I didn’t know they were friends.”

“More than friends, if you ask me,” Eren interjected, his voice slightly muffled by all the cotton candy in his mouth.

Armin frowned at him, prying the bag of spun sugar from his hands with a scowl. “I think you’ve eaten enough of this, Eren,” he said.

Eren let out a loud groan. “God, it’s like you two are my parents or something,” he muttered, turning and walking away to a nearby bench, where he angrily sat himself down, glowering at the patch of dirt in front of him.

Mikasa just shook her head, before continuing, “Yeah, Christa and Ymir are gonna be here soon. I don’t know if anyone else is showing up.”

Connie was practically bouncing with excitement. “This is gonna be great,” he said, grabbing Sasha and jiggling her shoulders. Her arm swung around as he all but pounced on her, causing the candy apple in her hand to jerk and hit her, right in the face.

“Agh, Connie!” she cried, wiping at the bright red goo now stuck to her cheek. “Jesus, man, calm down!”

“Ah, sorry,” Connie said, letting go of her shoulders and stepping back a bit.

Christa and Ymir showed up soon after that. Eren had returned from the bench, and they all stood around, trying to figure out where they should go first.

“I say corn maze,” Connie said, and Sasha nodded in agreement. There was still a small, pale pink stain on her cheek, but she had, for the most part, managed to get the sugary mess off her face.

“One of the workers told me that it’s a haunted corn maze this year,” Christa said. “They couldn’t afford to set up the haunted house, so they used a bunch of the stuff for that in the corn maze instead.”

“Even better!” Connie grinned widely, looking around at everyone. There was a mix of responses to the news that the corn maze was now haunted, some excited and some... not so much.

Jean was leaning more towards the latter.

“Well, if they don’t have the haunted house, then we should do the corn maze first,” Marco said, and there was a round of agreement.

“Oh, _Dieu_...” Jean muttered, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He normally didn’t have a problem with scary things, but, after an incident when he was twelve involving the Phantom Manor at Disneyland Paris, he had developed a natural aversion to any attraction with the word “haunted” anywhere in it.

Marco looked over at him, having heard his unhappy mumbling, one eyebrow raised. “You okay, Jean?” he asked.

Jean moved his hands away, blinking at the dots dancing around the corner of vision. “Uh... yeah,” he said, giving the American boy what he hoped was a confident smile. “I’m fine.”

Marco stared at him for a few seconds, as if deciding whether or not he was telling the truth. “...Okay,” he said eventually, turning back to everyone else.

Sasha was looking over the set of rules posted by the maze’s entrance. “Should we try and stay together?” she asked, taking a small bite of her apple.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Armin said. “So there’s no point in trying.”

Sasha contemplated his response for a moment, before nodding, deciding he was right. “Yeah, that’s true,” she said, before spinning to face everyone. “You guys ready?” A wide grin had spread across her face, and Jean noticed that the candy apple had tinged her teeth red.

“As ready as we’ll ever be,” Ymir said, rather unenthusiastically.

As everyone started filing into the entrance of the maze, Jean hung back slightly, his hands curled into fists and shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. Marco, however, seemed to notice and, grabbing the crook of the French boy’s arm, dragged him along into the maze.

“Are you scared?” he asked, his face close to Jean’s. His tone, however, wasn’t mocking or condescending—he was asking a genuine question.

Jean scowled slightly, turning away from Marco, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks. “I’m not scared,” he mumbled, glaring at the mucky ground.

“I’m a little nervous,” Marco admitted, releasing his grip on the other boy’s elbow and taking a few steps to the side. Jean almost wished he hadn’t. “The haunted houses they set up are always pretty good, so I’m wondering how the corn maze will be.”

Jean nodded. So far, the maze seemed pretty ordinary—there weren’t even any decorations. Ahead of them, everyone else was talking quietly amongst themselves, most wondering when something scary was going to happen. When they reached the first split path, however, Sasha was the first to notice the fake blood spilled across several stalks of corn. The question of which way they should go arose, and Jean stood back quietly as everyone else discussed.

Behind him, there was a sudden rustling. He froze almost instantly, and turned just in time to see a darkly clothed figure jump out of from amidst the corn and charge at him.

He bolted, not even giving himself enough time to scream, pushing his way past everyone and not caring to pay attention to which way he went. There was a chorus of screams behind him, and then the sound of running feet, some moving further away and some closer. Jean just kept running, around bends and twists and past blood-splattered props. He didn’t look back until he heard Marco calling his name, telling him that the figure hadn’t followed them.

Jean slowed to a stop, bending forward and resting his hands against his knees to catch his breath. Marco jogged up to him, followed by Armin, both breathing heavily.

“ _Merde_...” Jean muttered, shaking his head.

“I’ll take it that’s a swear or something,” Marco said, managing a grin.

Jean chuckled lightly, nodding and straightening, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. “Did you see where everyone else went?”

“Eren and Mikasa were with us at first,” Armin said, running a hand through his hair. “They were behind me, because Eren had tripped, and then I think something else jumped out at them. They must have taken a different turn after that.”

Jean nodded, letting out a deep breath. “Even though it’s not real, it scared me so much,” he said. “God...”

Armin and Marco nodded in agreement, both looking over their shoulders nervously.

“We should keep going,” Armin said, moving past Jean and glancing down each of the paths in front of them. “Standing around isn’t going to get us out.”

They went left, moving warily as they walked. When they reached another fork in the maze, Jean looked down the right one, only to see a person in a long black dress and chains, slowly stumbling towards them.

Marco screamed and took off, quickly followed by Jean and Armin. It sounded like the person had sped up behind them, but when Jean glanced back, Armin was the only one there. Right as he looked forward again, however, someone else jumped out from amidst the corn stalks, cutting the blond boy off from Jean and Marco.

Marco stopped, just for a second, but Jean kept going. He kept telling himself that it was all fake—none of it was real, not the figures that kept scaring the shit out of him or the blood splattered here and there across the corn or the unnerving warning signs he kept seeing.

And, yet, none of that stopped his heart from beating wildly as he ran, or kept the scream that he let out when a chainsaw-wielding madman came at him from escaping past his lips.

Marco caught up to him quickly, actually jumping on him when a battered-looking woman stepped around the corner. The two collapsed to the ground in a screaming heap, the impact of his back against the hard earth nearly knocking all the wind out of Jean.

Letting out a loud groan, he rubbed at his head where it had hit the packed dirt. There was a rustle, and it seemed like the woman had disappeared. However, only seconds later, when Jean tried to sit up, he found that she was actually standing right in front of him, her bloodied face mere inches from his.

He screamed, falling back onto the ground again and throwing his arms up, flailing them at the woman.

“ _Arrête!_ ” he wailed. “ _Arrête!_ _Putain de bordel de merde de saloperie, arrête!_ ”

Several seconds passed, and nothing happened. Jean had crossed his arms over his eyes, and was moaning quietly as he muttered to himself in French. Marco suddenly started shaking, his body still lying across Jean’s. Now over his little shock, Jean was acutely aware of all the places they were touching. Moving his hands from his face, he gently pushed the freckled boy off of him, sitting up with a huff.

Marco was actually laughing. He was sitting there, surrounded by tall, dying corn stalks in a pile of dirt, laughing.

“What’s funny?” Jean asked, looking around them—the woman seemed to have left, this time for real.

Marco could barely talk, he was laughing so hard. “Your face!” he cried, clapping his hands together. “Oh my god, Jean, your face! You should have seen it!”

Jean glared at him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And the way you screamed!” Marco continued, tears actually forming in his eyes and leaking down his freckled cheeks. “Jean, that was amazing.”

Jean threw a cob of corn at him.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, the two picked themselves up and continued making their way through the maze. There were more screams, and more frantic yelling in French from Jean, but after about another hour of walking they made their way out.

Eren and Mikasa were both sitting by the exit; Mikasa had managed to maintain her usual cool composure, but Eren looked rightfully frazzled. Both his hands looked rather scraped up, as well, most likely from the tumble he took that Armin had mentioned.

The first thing Eren did when he saw them was ask where Armin was.

“We, uh... We lost him a while back,” Marco said, cringing slightly at his own words. “Someone jumped between us and cut him off. I have no idea where he is.”

“You lost Armin?” Eren asked, scowling as he looked between the two. “Why didn’t you go back for him? Jesus Christ...”

“There was a big, blood-covered man in our way,” Jean snapped, and, almost as an after-thought, added, “ _Connard_...”

“Armin can handle himself, you idiots,” Mikasa said, standing up and stepping between the two. “He’s not useless.”

“I know that,” Eren said, crossing his arms and scowling at the ground. “I know that more than most people. I just don’t think anyone should be left alone in that hellish maze.”

Mikasa nodded, turning to him and putting her hand on his shoulder. “He’ll be fine,” she assured him. “He’s probably figured out a pattern in the maze and knows exactly how to get out, knowing him.”

Eren laughed slightly, shaking his head. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said.

Jean groaned loudly, rolling his eyes. “It’s a _maze_ ,” he said. “It’s not like he could _die_ in there.”

“Jean.” The French boy turned to look at Marco, who had one eyebrow raised. “You’re definitely one to talk. The way you kept screaming and wailing made it seem like you were being tortured to death.”

Jean narrowed his eyes at him. “ _Ta geule_ , Marco.” Shut up.

Marco laughed.

 

* * *

 

Everyone did make it out of the maze safely. As it turned out, Armin had made his way out before anyone else; they found him by the petting zoo, eating from a small box of fudge. He insisted that it had been incredibly easy to get out, and that he actually wouldn’t mind going back in again.

No one else agreed with him.

 

* * *

 

By mid-October, several days after the maze mishap, it was finally getting colder; the temperature was dropping to 6°C in the mornings and evenings, to barely past 20°C in the afternoons. And while it was, on average, warmer than France, it was also colder, which led Jean to needing to wear a thin coat while waiting for his bus, to not even needing a hoodie while leaving school.

The trees were also getting barer. Dead leaves littered the ground, crunching beneath feet and getting swept everywhere by the wind. On his most recent visit to Marco’s house, Jean had helped him rake up all the leaves in his yard; there had been so many, they’d been able to make three huge piles, one of which Marco’s little sister, Beatrix, had run through.

Beatrix was a sweet enough girl; she had just turned seven in early September, and resembled her brother and mother in the fact that she was covered in freckles. She was absolutely full of energy and curiosity, and always hung around Jean when he was over. She pretty much loved him, and spent a lot of her time trying to show him her frogs, which she had captured in the creek behind their house and kept in a bucket outside.

Marco also had two older siblings, Sara and Roy. They had both already left the house, however, so Jean had never met them; he saw them in the pictures hanging on the wall of the Bodt’s house, however.

That was one thing he noticed about Marco’s mother; she loved pictures of her family. They were absolutely everywhere—on the walls and the desks and the computer backgrounds. Some seemed to be at least thirty years old, while others were only taken a few months ago.

One of the most prevalent people in the pictures, Jean realized, was a man with a thick head of dark hair and a kind, warm-hearted smile. He assumed that it was Marco’s father, someone he had never met, based on the fact that he was in almost all of the family pictures scattered around the house, and had a very obvious resemblance to Marco. While the boy had gotten all of his freckles from his mother, most everything else seemed to come from this man—particularly the smile.

Jean never asked about him, though. There was probably some reason or other why he had never him.

 

* * *

 

“It’s gotten a lot colder, hasn’t it?”

Jean looked over at Marco and nodded. It was the day before Halloween—October 30th. That morning it had dipped rather close to 0°C, and it had looked almost as if some frost was just beginning to form on the grass when Jean left for the bus.

“It really has,” he said, nodding. They were making their way through the school hallways, headed for the last class of the day before study period; math, which they shared. “Just last week it was almost twenty degrees.”

Marco gave him a weird look. “I hope it wasn’t twenty degrees,” he said, shivering, as if just thinking about frigid weather was making him cold.

“Oh, no, I meant twenty degrees _Celsius_ ,” Jean said, laughing slightly. “I don’t know what that is in Fahrenheit...”

“Neither do I,” Marco said. “But I’m gonna guess it’s somewhere around sixty degrees.”

Jean shrugged. “Maybe.”  

 

* * *

 

The next day—Halloween—Jean went over to Marco’s after school. Apparently, Beatrix really wanted to show him her costume, and Marco had enlisted him to help take the little girl out trick-or-treating later that evening.

It, thankfully, wasn’t very cold outside when they left the school. The sun was high in the sky and shining brightly, and a nice breeze kept it all at a relatively cool temperature. Dead leaves skittered across the pavement as Jean and Marco walked along the sidewalk, the freckled boy going out of his way to step on them, enjoying the satisfying crunching sound they made.

Beatrix was already dressed up in her costume when they arrived, and she excitedly ran up to them as they walked through the front door, twirling around in her little green dress. The set of small, skinny wings on her back flopped around as she spun, and the antennas stuck on her head almost fell off.

“Jean!” she cried, taking his hands and making him dance with her. “Can you guess what I am?”

“Um... Let me think...” Jean said, letting himself be pulled around. He had never really been good with children, mostly due to the fact that he never really interacted with him. Until his older cousin had had a baby a few years ago, he had been the youngest in his family; no younger relatives at all. His parents had been in their mid-thirties when he was born, as well, so all their friends had kids who were much older than he was. Whenever he was over at Marco’s, he tried to avoid talking to Beatrix—he’d probably say something and make the poor girl cry.

“You look like... a _libellule_ ,” he continued, glancing to where Marco was standing, watching the two with a grin on his face. Beatrix looked very much like she was supposed to be some sort of insect, and he was pretty sure he knew which one—he just couldn’t remember its English name.

“What’s a lee-bah-lool?” the girl asked, stopping and letting go of his hand, placing her much smaller ones on her hips. “I’m a dragonfly!”

“ _Libellule_ is the French word for dragonfly,” Jean explained, shoving his hands in his pockets so she wouldn’t grab them again. He almost stumbled over the last word—he was pretty sure he’d read it somewhere before, but had never actually said it out loud. He just hoped that _libellule_ actually _was_ the French word for dragonfly.

“Oh,” Beatrix said, nodding, before happily jumping up and down. “What’s frog in French?”

“Uh, _grenouille_ ,” he said, lunging forward and pulling her out of the way of a cabinet. Beatrix, oblivious to the fact she had just almost run into a very heavy-looking piece of furniture, seemed rather annoyed at the pronunciation, her small face scrunching up into a frown.

“What about... flower!” she asked.

“ _Fleur_ ,” Jean said, and the little girl grinned happily.

“Fler!” she cried, and he didn’t bother trying to correct her pronunciation—it wasn’t that bad for a seven-year-old anyway.

Just then, Mrs. Bodt walked into the room, shaking her head at her daughter. “My goodness, Bea, leave the poor boy alone,” she scolded, prying the little girl off of Jean.

“But, Mommy, he was teaching me French!” Beatrix protested, scowling at her mother. “He taught me leeb-lool and fler!”

“That’s very good,” Mrs. Bodt said, directing the costumed girl towards the living room. “But why don’t you play with your toys for now? Maybe you and Jean can have another lesson later.”

Beatrix nodded and trotted off, somewhat begrudgingly, to play. When she was gone, Mrs. Bodt turned to Jean, sighing a bit. “Sorry about that,” the freckled woman said, giving him a small smile. “She’s way too energetic sometimes.”

“You’re really nice to her, though,” Marco said, stepping into the conversation. “A lot of people just brush her off. But you don’t.” He gave Jean one his warm, cheerful smiles, and the French boy felt a blush spread across his cheeks.

He shrugged, trying not to stare at Marco—but just thinking about how beautiful his smile was made him want to look at him forever. He wanted to sit with him for the rest of his life, and just trace his fingers across his lips and the freckles on his cheeks and the curve of his collarbone, the outline visible through his speckled skin. He wanted that smile to be on his face every second of every day, and he wanted to be there to see it...

God, he was cheesy.

Stuffing his hands back into his pockets, Jean stared at the ground, his face growing even hotter. “I’ve, euh... never really been good with kids,” he said, scuffing his feet along the kitchen tiles.

“Bea really likes you, though,” Marco pointed out. “So you can’t be that bad.”

Jean shrugged again, but he smiled slightly to himself, his eyes still trained on the floor, focusing too much on the grime built up between the cream-coloured ceramic. “I guess...” he muttered, and Mrs. Bodt let out a little chuckle.

“Oh, you’re a good kid, Jean Kirschtein,” she said, patting his shoulder. “A pretty good kid.”

 

* * *

 

They left to go trick-or-treating at around 6pm. Beatrix, still dressed in her dragonfly costume, bounded down the driveway as they left the house, running onto the street and yelling at Jean and Marco to hurry up.

“This is only my second time trick-or-treating,” Jean said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his oversized hoodie and kicking at a crack in the pavement.

“What?” Marco turned to him, an almost horrified look on his face. “How have you only ever been trick-or-treating once?” 

“It’s not really something we do in France,” Jean explained, grinning a bit at how scandalised Marco seemed to be. “My parents never did it, my sister never did it. The only time I did, I was twelve. And I only went to some shops in town.”

“That sucks,” Marco said, but he quickly brightened. “At least now you’ll get to see what a real American Halloween is like. Too bad you can’t actually go trick-or-treating... Most people get mad when teenagers do it.”

Jean raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s kind of weird,” he said. “I don’t think I would really like it though... I always thought it was strange that Americans went to random strangers’ houses asking for candy.”

Marco paused, as if considering what Jean had said, before nodding. “Yeah, I guess it is kind of weird,” he agreed, before shrugging. “But it’s what we do.”

“Are you guys ever coming!” Bea yelled suddenly, waving her arms at the two. She was standing at the end of the driveway of a nearby house, her ghost-patterned trick-or-treating bag swinging from her hand. “You’re so _slow_!”

Marco sighed, grabbing the inside of Jean’s elbow and dragging him to where the little girl stood, her round, freckled face twisted into a scowl. “Yeah, we’re coming, calm down,” he said, though  he didn’t sound very annoyed—Jean had realized that Marco almost never got annoyed or angry. He practically had the patience of a saint.

“Olivia said she’s meeting us at her house,” Bea said, stomping her feet against the ground impatiently. “So we need to hurry and get there!”

“She lives just down the street,” Marco said, taking his sister’s hand and walking with her up the driveway of their neighbour’s house. “It won’t take us long to get there at all.”

Bea still let out an angry huff, but brightened when she saw an older lady sitting on the house’s front porch, handing out candy.

“Mrs. Pixis!” she cried, running towards the woman. “Trick-or-treat!”

“Oh my goodness, it’s the Bodt children!” the woman—Mrs Pixis—said, a wide smile spreading across her wrinkled face. “Two of them, at least.” Reaching into the bowl beside her, she plucked up two chocolate bars and dropped them into Bea’s bag. “There you go, little dragonfly.”

Bea giggled. Looking to where Jean was standing, near the end of the walkway, she ran to him, grabbing his hand and dragging him up the porch steps. “Mrs. Pixis!” she said again, swinging her hand in Jean’s. “This is Jean! He’s from France!”

Mrs. Pixis glanced at him, still smiling her sweet, maternal smile. “Hello, dear,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m guessing you’re a friend of Marco’s?”

Jean opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off before he could.

“He’s my boyfriend!” Bea announced, placing her hands on her hips and grinning proudly.

Marco let out a stifled laugh, and Mrs. Pixis shook her head, letting out a little sigh.

“’Ey, I never agreed to that,” Jean said, narrowing his eyes at the little girl.

She frowned up at him. “Well, _will_ you be my boyfriend?” she asked, crossing her arms and rocking forward onto the tips of her toes.

“You’re too young for me,” Jean said, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

“What about when I’m older?” Bea asked. “When I’m ten will you be my boyfriend?”

Jean sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Probably not,” he said. “Sorry, Bea, but I only really like boys. Girls, too, but you’d still be too young.”

There were a few seconds of silence—no one said anything. Bea’s expression changed from annoyed to confused, while Mrs. Pixis’s went from shocked to angry. Snapping her head towards Marco, who had a rather surprised look on his face, she glared at the freckled boy. “What sort of friends do you have, young man?” she asked, her tone harsh and accusing.

Marco took in a deep breath, clasping his hands together in front of him. “Mrs. Pixis, please don’t,” he said, his voice strained as he squeezed his eyes shut. It looked almost like he was trying not to panic, and Jean felt a sudden stab of guilt as he realized it was his fault. He hadn’t even thought before he spoke; he’d just said it, without realizing that it may not be the best idea.

Up until then, he hadn’t told Marco he was bisexual—he’d never even really hinted at it. And if he had, Marco had never said anything about.

“I’ll do whatever I please, Marco Bodt,” Mrs. Pixis said, standing from where she was sitting and taking on a very authoritative air. Pointing a finger at the boy, she added, “And don’t think I won’t mention this to your mother.”

Marco seemed to be keeping himself from saying something, his hands balled into fists at his sides. But he just grabbed Bea and started pulling her back down the driveway, Jean following. The French boy stopped, however, when he heard Mrs. Pixis call after him.

“As for you, boy,” she said, narrowing her age-clouded eyes at him. “You’ll get what’s coming for you, one day.”

Jean was about ready to stride right back up the porch and hit the old bat right across the face. What held him back, however, wasn’t the fact that she was an elderly woman, but that Marco was watching him, his dark eyebrows furrowed together above his eyes. So instead, he stuck his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and, glaring the woman down, yelled, “ _Je t’emmerde, madame_!”

Fuck you.

Spinning on his heel, Jean marched to where Marco stood, barreling past a group of kids who quickly ran out of his way.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he muttered to the freckled boy, before turning and walking back in the direction they had come from, pulling his hood up over his head. He didn’t want to hang around him at the moment, mostly because he was dreading what Marco might say—that he didn’t want to be friends with him anymore, or that he hated him.

Marco watched him go, and didn’t say anything.

 

* * *

 

Jean walked until he reached the elementary school near his house. He sat himself down on a swing and stayed there, watching the sky as it turned from pink to orange to black and the stars and moon came out, little patches of light in the endless dark.

He was angry at himself, and he was angry at Mrs. Pixis, and he was angry at _everything_. It always felt like there was something for him to be angry about; he’d just get over something, and waiting around the corner would be something else. 

And he had just left Marco there. He hadn’t even bothered to try talking to him; he’d just walked off because he didn’t want to deal with the consequences of what he had said. He didn’t care what Bea or Mrs. Pixis thought of him, but he cared what Marco thought. He cared about whether or not Marco would still want to be his friend.

Letting out a loud sigh, he scuffed his feet against the rocks covering the playground and pushed himself backwards, pumping his legs until he was swinging high enough that his eyes were level with the top of the swingset. The fall night air was cold on his face, and the wind blew his hood back from his head, but he didn’t care. Several costumed kids walked by, laughing and talking with each other, but he barely noticed them. He just swung, ignoring the way the metal shook under his weight.

He only slowed slightly when he heard the sound of rocks sliding beneath feet. Looking over, he saw someone walking towards him, realizing quickly that it was Marco, his face illuminated by the outdoor lights on the school.

Skidding to a stop, he watched as the freckled boy slowly sat down in the swing beside him, pushing himself back and forth with the tips of his toes.

“I’m sorry,” Jean said after several seconds of silence had passed, staring at his hands clasped his lap.

“What for?” Marco asked, twirling slightly so that he was facing Jean. 

“I just left, for no reason,” the French boy said, kicking at the rocks beneath him. “And I swore at an old lady.” He paused, before adding, “Though I don’t really care about that...”

Marco let out a little laugh. “You swore at her?” he asked, grinning. “What exactly did you say?”

Jean couldn’t help but smirk. “I think... I think I said something along the lines of... ‘fuck you’.”

“You’re glad she didn’t know what you were saying,” Marco said. “She would have killed you.”

“Why is she like that, anyway?” Jean asked, finally looking up from his hands and turning to Marco. “She seems very... erm... _malheureux_.”

“She’s pretty religious,” Marco said, shrugging. “Her husband’s a pastor, and so she’s always been pretty serious about her beliefs. I don’t really know what mawl... mawl-euh-rer means, but she’s normally pretty nice. Just... she’s raised like eight kids, so she doesn’t mess around. With anything.”

Jean nodded. “I don’t really like her,” he said, and Marco shrugged.

“You get used to her if you have to be around her as much as I do.” He said.

There was a pause, and the two sat quietly on the swings, the only sounds being the laughs of children still trick-or-treating and the dusty clunk of rocks tumbling around. Marco was the first to speak.

“Are you really... I’m not even sure what it’s called… Bisexual?” he asked, his voice quiet. When Jean looked over at him, his eyebrows were furrowed together, but his expression was hard to read, especially in the dark.

“...Yeah.” Jean nodded, not taking his eyes off of Marco. The boy’s expression remained the same, however, and he quickly looked away, staring at his feet, planted firmly on the uneven ground. Jean frowned slightly, leaning forward and saying, “I will not flirt with you, you know.”

 _T'es un menteur, Jean Kirschtein,_ he thought to himself, scowling. You are a liar, Jean Kirschtein.

“I’m not worried about that,” Marco said, shaking his head. “It’s just... ugh, I don’t even know.” Standing up, Marco wrapped his arms around himself and started walking away—Jean was quick to follow.

“Where are you going?” he asked, catching up to him.

“I’m lying down,” Marco said, his voice just above a whisper. He walked to where the playground ended and a small, grassy area began, and lied down, his hands behind his head. “I want to watch the stars.”

“I... okay.” Jean wanted to know what had been worrying Marco, but obviously he didn’t want to talk about it, so Jean let it be. Sitting down beside Marco, he reclined onto his back, the dewy night grass tickling the back of his neck.

They lied together, side by side, in comfortable silence, staring up at the stars twinkling above them. The night sky was almost completely void of clouds, giving them the best view they could probably get, what with all the light pollution from the town.

But it was still beautiful. Jean tried to pick out some constellations, but the only one he could find was the Big Dipper— _la Grande Ourse_. He had never really known much about stars or constellations, though, so he just contented himself with watching them, and just wondering.

“ _Tu sais, t'es comme une étoile_ ,” he said, breaking the silence and glancing over at Marco, who looked more at peace than Jean had ever seen him. “ _Mais t'es plus beau; tu pourrais les surpasser chaque nuit._ ”

You know, you are like a star. But you are more beautiful; you could surpass them every night.

Marco smiled, and closed his eyes.

Jean had never wanted anything more than he wanted to kiss him, right then and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More French words hooray:
> 
>  _De_ : when used in the way it is in the texts, it means from. So _De: Marco_ means From: Marco (though I'm sure that was pretty easy to figure out)
> 
>  _À_ : to (so _À: Marco_ = To: Marco
> 
>  _C'est rien_ : it's nothing
> 
>  _Attends_ : wait
> 
>  _Bonne chance_ : Good luck
> 
>  _Oh, Dieu_ : Oh, God
> 
>  _Arrête_ : stop
> 
>  _Putain de bordel de merde de saloperie_ : literally just a random slew of swears strung together. The closest thing i can translate it to is "fucking hell shit shit" ( _merde_ and _saloperie_ both mean shit, while _bordel_ actually means brothel but is used as hell, and _putain_ actually means whore but is used like fuck is in english)
> 
>  _Con_ : cunt, asshole, shitass, twat... you get it
> 
>  _Malheureux_ : unhappy


	3. Dire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Books, snowball fights, and drunken karaoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [oh yea I have a tumblr](http://turkeywingsoffreedom.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> There're a few mentions of things that are part of the French education system in this chapter. One of them is the _bac_ , which is basically a diploma students get when they graduate the French equivalent of high school. You need it to go to university. There's also a quick thing that has to do with French academic grading, which is pretty different from North American and explained [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Academic_grading_in_France).
> 
> Chapter Title: Say
> 
> Lyrics:
> 
> Twenty thousand way to say I love you,
> 
> Twenty thousand reasons to not say it.
> 
> Very little chance that we'll understand it,
> 
> What will we do to destroy?
> 
> Twenty thousand chances that we'll regret,
> 
> Twenty thousand questions without answers.
> 
> Will we be what we want to be?
> 
> What will we do if we quit?
> 
> (song title: We live but one time)

_Vingt mille façons de dire je t’aime,_

_Vingt mille raisons de n’pas le dire._

_Très peu de chance qu’on le comprenne,_

_Que fera-t-on pour se détruire?_

_Vingt mille chances qu’on se regrette,_

_Vingt mille questions sans réponse._

_Sera-t-on c’qu’on a voulu être?_

_Que fera-t-on si on renonce?_

_-On ne vit qu’une fois,_ Sidoine

 

* * *

  

The first snow came in early November.

It was just over three centimetres; barely enough to cover the ground. It was the type of snow that only lasted for about a day, and was gone by late afternoon, melted by the sun. Most of it had already disappeared by the time Jean walked into the cafeteria at lunchtime with Marco.

“I can’t wait until it actually snows,” Marco said, looking out the windows with a frown as they stood in line, waiting to get their food. “It always does this in late fall. None of it ever lasts long.”

“It’s annoying,” Connie said, striding up to the two. “It just makes everything wet and miserable. December’s when the real snow comes.”

Sasha snorted, shoving her way past the small group to try and see what was being served. “As if you get much snow here,” she said, before shaking her head and huffing. “Ugh, I’m too short to see. Jean, _sais tu ce qui est pour déjeuner_?” Do you know what’s for lunch?

“Euh…” Jean tried to look around the people gathered in front of him, but couldn’t see much, other than the heads of the cafeteria workers and the backs of other students. “ _Non, je peux pas voir. Désolé._ ” No, I can’t see. Sorry.

Sasha sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “All right, whatever.”

Connie raised an eyebrow at her. “Did you just ask him to try and see what was for lunch?” he asked.

“ _No_ ,” Sasha said, scowling at him. “I asked him if he _knew_ what was for lunch. And he didn’t. Because he can’t see.”

“Why’d you have to ask him in French, though?” Connie countered. “I mean, he obviously speaks English.”

“I did it just to make you ask questions,” Sasha said, before turning from him and trying, once again, to see what was being served.

Connie glared at the back of her head, before letting out an annoyed groan and shaking his head.

The line moved quickly after that, so Sasha was finally able to find out what was for lunch—hamburgers with French fries—and they were able to get their food and find an empty table, right by the windows. There were still a few patches of snow scattered around outside, mostly in shady areas or in piles against the curb of the bus roundabout, and Marco watched them slowly melt, his lips pursed in discontent.

“Do you like snow?” Jean asked, drawing Marco’s attention from the windows. “You don’t seem very happy that it is melting.”

Marco smiled, shrugging. “Yeah, I guess I like it,” he said. “I was born in Texas, and I think we got snow once in the seven years we lived there. And then we moved here, and there’s snow every single winter, and I dunno… I just like it.”

“One year I’ll bring you to Canada for winter,” Sasha said, grinning at him. “We’ll go during February so we can go to the _carnaval_ in Quebec City. And we’ll go to a sugar shack and eat tons of maple taffy.”

“Isn’t _carnaval_ the big festival with the creepy _bonhomme de neige_?” Jean asked.

Sasha nodded. “Bonhomme Carnaval!” Her grin grew even wider for a second, before turning into a scowl. “I once knocked over a cardboard cut-out of him…”

“Sasha, I don’t understand your Canadian lingo,” Connie said. “I have no idea what that car… carnival? What that carnival thing is, who Bonhomme Carnival is, or what maple taffy is.”

“Who said I’m inviting you, anyways?” Sasha sneered, sticking her tongue out at him. “I’m only inviting Marco. And maybe Jean.”

Connie narrowed his eyes at her, and she just smirked back. “Maybe if you could actually say _carnaval_ I’d invite you,” she sang, dipping a fry into some ketchup.

“I bet Marco can’t say it,” Connie argued. “And you’re inviting him.”

“Because he’s the whole reason this came up,” Sasha said. “So _meh_.”

Connie just rolled his eyes, taking a bite of his hamburger.

 

* * *

 

“Why are there so many stars on your ceiling?”

Marco looked over at Jean, who was watching him from his bedroom floor, sprawled on his back. Up until a few minutes ago, Marco had been helping him study for an English test he had the next day, going over things like sentence structure and verb conjugation. However, Jean had given up when Marco had tried to explain the different conjugations of “fly”, rolling off his chair and onto the floor, mumbling to himself about how stupid it was that the simple past conjugation was “flew” and not “flied”.

“I am only going to say ‘flied’ from now on in protest of your stupid English rules,” he had announced, glaring at Marco’s carpet.

“Saying ‘flied’ won’t help you pass your English test,” the freckled boy had remarked, grinning at him.

“I don’t care,” Jean had argued. “ _Vive la révolution!_ ”

Marco had just laughed at him, before turning to work on his own homework and letting Jean wallow in his anger on the floor. He hadn’t even noticed when the French boy flipped himself over from his stomach to his back, and apparently started staring at the plastic stars plastered to his ceiling.

“How many are up there, anyway?” Jean asked now, raising an eyebrow at Marco.

“Uh… I used to be afraid of the dark,” Marco explained, shuffling his science notes around. “And the stars were glow-in-the-dark, so my mom bought me a ton of them and I put them on my ceiling so it would seem like I was looking at the night sky… I guess? There’re at least forty up there. I’m not sure, though.”

Jean nodded, hoisting himself up into a sitting position. “That’s nice,” he said. Reaching over, he grabbed his English notebook off of Marco’s desk and, looking back at the boy, saw that his face was bright red. “Are you alright?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Marco jumped. “Oh, uh, yeah, I’m fine,” he assured, nodding his head. “I’m fine. Are you, uh, ready to keep studying?”

“Uh-huh,” Jean said, though he eyed Marco suspiciously. “As long as there aren’t any more stupid conjugations.”

Marco grinned at him. “Sorry,” he apologized, and Jean groaned.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Marco was waiting outside Jean’s English class when the period ended.

“How’d it go?” He asked, sliding up to the French boy as he walked out of the room. “Did you use the right conjugation of ‘fly’?”

“I don’t think I did well on the writing part,” Jean said, heading towards his locker. Marco followed after, frowning.

“Why?” He asked. “What do you think you did wrong?”

“Ugh, I have no idea,” Jean groaned. “It was just really hard, and I couldn’t understand some of the questions.”

Marco sighed. “I’m sure you didn’t do that bad,” he assured him, and Jean just shook his head.

They walked in silence until they reached Jean’s locker. Marco leaned against the door of the neighbouring locker, scuffing his foot against the dirty hallway floor as Jean undid his lock and started rummaging for his science stuff.

“Why don’t you rant to me about your test?” Marco said, noticing the angry expression Jean still had on his face. “You can even do it in French, if you want. I’ll just smile and nod and pretend like I know what you’re saying.”

Jean almost laughed. “Marco, _si je te parle en français, je ne vais pas parler de mes tests,_ ” he said, tossing his English binder onto the top shelf of his locker and grabbing his science notebook. Marco, if I talk to you in French, I won’t talk about my tests. “ _Je vais probablement parler de toi_.” I’ll probably talk about you.

Marco just nodded, like he said he would, his usual cheerful smile on his face. Jean felt his face go bright red; even though he knew otherwise, the way Marco nodded made it seemed like he understood what Jean was saying. He didn’t ask what he had said, like he did every other time, and just looked at him, expecting him to continue.

“ _Ne me regardes pas comme_ _ça_ ,” Jean snapped, glaring at his locker door as he swung it shut. Don’t look at me like that.

He immediately felt guilty for talking so harshly, but Marco didn’t seem to mind at all—for all he knew, Jean was just really angry about his English test.

Grumbling to himself, he ran a hand through his hair. “Nevermind,” he said. “Let’s just get to science.”

“Are you that annoyed about it?” Marco asked, his expression concerned.

“No, no, I’m not annoyed about the test,” Jean responded, scowling at the ground. “It’s nothing.”

Marco watched him for a  few seconds. “Is it about what happened on Halloween?” His voice was quiet as he asked the question, as if it was something he wasn’t supposed to mention.

Jean paused slightly. They hadn’t really talked about what had happened, at least not extensively. Marco had brought it up once, the day after, but hadn’t really said much; just that Mrs. Pixis hadn’t actually told his mother—he guessed she had either forgotten, or her husband had talked her out of it. He had also advised him to probably stay quiet about the fact that he was bisexual; most people in the town were pretty religious, and while most people wouldn’t do much but glare at him if they found out, there were a few who might be rather violent about it. Jean had just nodded, and it hadn’t been talked about since.

Jean still thought about it all the time, though. For days after it had happened, he would lie awake at night, staring at the wall and wondering what would have happened if he had kissed Marco. He also thought about how Marco had acted—frustrated, and worried. He didn’t ask, however, figuring that if Marco really wanted to talk about it, he would.

“No, it’s not about that,” Jean answered, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

Marco frowned, pursing his lips unhappily. “You’ve been really moody lately,” he said. “But you won’t talk about it. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Jean sighed, pushing open the science classroom door and taking his seat. He wanted to be angry at Marco and his persistent kindness, but he just couldn’t. “I’m fine,” he said, giving the freckled boy a smile. “Okay?”

Marco stared at him, scrutinizing, for a few moments, before nodding. “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

Two days later Jean got his English test back. He didn’t do nearly as bad as he thought he would overall but, like he said, he almost completely failed the writing portion. When the bell rang at the end of class, Ms. Brzneska called him over to her desk, telling him she’d like to have a word.

“I’m a bit worried about some parts of your test,” she said, after most of the students had filed out the door and into the hallway. “Most of them weren’t terrible, but there were some that could definitely be a lot better.” She paused, tapping her pen against the wood of her desk, before asking, “How are your classes with Ms. Ral going?”

Jean shrugged. “They’re okay, I guess,” he said.

“Do you find that they’re helping?”

Jean thought for a moment, before nodding. “Yes, I think they are,” he concluded.

“Good,” the teacher said. “I know how difficult it is to learn a second language, and to use it every day all day. Both my parents immigrated from Europe, and neither of them are as comfortable with English as they are with their native language, despite the fact that they’ve been living here for over fifty years.”

“It’s not very easy to learn,” Jean said, and Ms. Brzenska hummed thoughtfully in agreement.

“It can be very confusing,” she said, nodding. “Which is why I’d like to know, would you be open to getting English help outside of this class and your ESL course? I have another student in one of my later classes, Annie Leonhardt, who seems to have some trouble as well.”

Jean shook his head. “I don’t think it would be very helpful,” he admitted. “I already get a lot of help from one of my friends. I’m not that bad at English, am I?”

Ms. Brzenska shook her head. “No, Jean, you’re not,” she said. “Honestly, you’re quite good at this for someone who’s only been using English every day for… how long has it been, four months? And I have no idea when you started learning it, so for all I know, you could be a linguistic genius.”

“I’ve been learning for around six years, I think,” Jean said. “Most of it was in primary school, and it was only a little bit each day.”

“Well, you’re still pretty good,” Ms. Brzenska said. “The only thing you really need to work on is writing and forming sentences. You seem to have very few problems when speaking, but once it comes to actually putting things on paper you start second-guessing yourself. A lot. And that leads to you making mistakes. What I suggest is you read some novels, in English, and get that friend of yours to help you out some. Who is it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Marco,” Jean said, groaning a bit internally at the thought of reading English books; he’d had enough just from The Lord of the Flies. “He’s in one of your classes, I think.”

Ms. Brzenska smiled—just a small, half-smile, but still a smile. “He’s very good at English,” she said, obviously pleased. “I’m sure he’ll be able to help you a lot—it seems like he already has.”

Jean nodded, shifting slightly from foot to foot. He still had to go to his locker, get his stuff, and make it to science class on time—Hange wasn’t one to condone tardiness, even if you had an excuse. Ms. Brzenska seemed to notice this, and leaned back in her chair, clapping her hands together.

“Well, I think that’s all for now, Jean,” she said. “I suggest you go over the writing portion of your test with Ms. Ral, or Marco, and try and figure out what you could have done better.”

“Alright,” Jean said, backing away towards the door. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

Ms. Brzenska nodded. “Goodbye, Jean.”

Once he was out the door, he pretty much ran down the hallway and towards the staircase, checking the time on a clock hung over a set of lockers—if he hurried and didn’t stop for anything besides his science stuff, he could make it. He walked as fast as he could without completely barreling through groups of students scattered here and there, mostly because he didn’t want to get in trouble; if a teacher stopped him, he’d almost definitely be late.

When he made it to his locker, he quickly twisted the lock open and pretty much threw his English notebook onto one of the shelves, grabbing his science binder and closing the door. Once again, he rushed through the halls, this way heading the other direction, until he reached the science classroom, walking through the door just as the bell rang.

“Ooh, right on time, Mr. Kirschtein!” Hange cooed, smirking at him as he quickly took his seat beside Marco. “Just a second later and you would have been late.”

Jean nodded, letting out a deep breath. Everyone around him snickered slightly, before Hange ordered them to open their books to last night’s homework so they could check if it was done. Jean did the same, flipping open his notebook to the most recent page and glancing over at Marco, who was grinning at him.

“What?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows together slightly.

“You looked pretty frantic when you walked through the door,” Marco said, chuckling to himself. “Like you forgot to turn the oven off or something.”

Jean narrowed his eyes at him, asking, “What’s the supposed to mean?”

“You’re acting like I insulted you or something,” Marco said. “I just meant that it looked like you just remembered something important.”

Jean scowled at him, before shaking his head and looking back at his notebook, fiddling idly with the pages. “I don’t like English…” he muttered. “Too many stupid phrases.”

“Oh, speaking of English, did you get your test back?” Marco asked, leaning his cheek against the palm of his hand. He brightened when Jean nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “What’d you get?”

“I got a B-,” Jean said, shrugging slightly. “Like I thought, the writing portion was really bad. Ms. Brzenska actually kept me after class to talk about it, which is why I was almost late.”

Marco raised an eyebrow at him. “What did she tell you?”

“She asked me if I’d be open to getting extra help,” Jean said. “Like tutoring. But I told her that you were helping me a lot, and that seemed to make her happy. She just said to read some English novels and to get you to help me with forming sentences while writing.”

Marco smiled at him. “Yeah, I can definitely help with that,” he assured, nodding. “I also have some books you can borrow.” He paused, before adding, “Or we could go to the library. The one I always go to isn’t far from my house… Maybe a three-minute drive?”

Jean groaned. “As long as they aren’t too long or complicated…” he mumbled, swinging his feet and kicking at the ground.

Marco opened his mouth to say something, but before he could Hange swooped down on them, a red pen and their handy Homework Completion Clipboard, as they called it, in hand. “And have you two done your homework?” they questioned, pen hovering over the clipboard. Marco nodded, motioning to the answers he had written out on a lined piece of paper; Jean did the same. Hange nodded and smiled, obviously pleased, checking something off on their board before moving on to the next student.

“Anyways, like I was going to say,” Marco said, picking up where he left off and turning to Jean. “I think I do have some smaller novels you can read. I’ll bring them tomorrow!”

Jean nodded, sighing. “Yeah, that works,” he said, and Marco grinned.

“Don’t act like you’ve been sentenced to community service,” he chided. “Reading’s not that bad! Do you not like it?”

“I like reading just fine,” Jean said, scowling at his desk. “I just don’t like doing it in English…”

“Well, too bad,” Marco smirked at him. “It’ll help you get better at English. And I’ll help you out, if you want.”

Jean let out a deep sigh. “Alright,” he said, and Marco nodded.

“Great,” he said. “Don’t worry, though; I won’t make you read The Lord of the Rings yet.”

Jean just shook his head.

 

* * *

 

Marco ended up texting a list of books to Jean later that day. It was rather short, and Jean had heard of most of them; he’d even read some of them, though it had been in French. Still, there were enough to make him moan slightly in dread.

**De: Marco**

**The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, The Hobbit, The Maze Runner, The Road, SOS Titanic, The Outsiders**

**You’re going to read them all.**

Sighing, Jean scowled at the list; he’d already read The Hobbit, The Maze Runner, and The Outsiders, though it had been a while. He’d also heard of The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, and had seen the movie, so he already knew what happened and how it ended. He hadn’t ever heard of or read The Road or SOS Titanic, however.

Grumbling quietly to himself, he quickly typed out a response.

**À: Marco**

**let’s** **start with the hobbit. i really like the movies**

Marco’s answer came a few seconds later.

**De: Marco**

**Have you ever read it?**

**À: Marco**

**i did a few years ago just not in english**

**De: Marco**

**I guess we can start there. Have you read The Boy in the Striped Pajamas?**

**À: Marco**

**no but i know how it ends. the little brun boy dies.**

**De: Marco**

**Bruno. We can read that after.**

They went back and forth like this for several minutes, until an order for the books had been decided—The Hobbit first, then The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, followed by The Road, The Outsiders, and SOS Titanic, with The Maze Runner last. Marco promised to bring The Hobbit to school the next day, then the conversation ended. 

Jean sat around for a while afterward, staring at his phone, his eyes locked on Marco’s name in his contacts list, until his mother called him down for dinner.

 

* * *

 

Just like he said, Marco showed up at Jean’s locker the following day, The Hobbit in hand. It was a rather old, worn copy; the cover was bent and cracking in several places, and the pages were yellowed and water-stained.

“Will that book even survive another reading?” Jean asked, raising an eyebrow at Marco as he held it towards him.

Marco seemed to consider what he had said for a moment, his eyes darting from the book to Jean, before shrugging. “Probably,” he said. “I mean, it’s made it this far without falling apart. Besides, I don’t think it’s _that_ old.”

“Check the publication date,” Jean said, and Marco complied, carefully opening the crumbling cover and flipping through the first pages to the one printed with all the legal text.

“The Hobbit was first published in 1937…” he said, skimming over the page. “…And this edition was published in 1961.” He paused, his lower lip sticking out and his brow furrowing into something of a scowl. “So maybe it is kind of old. But you have to admit, for something that’s like… fifty years old, it’s in pretty good condition.”

Jean chuckled, shaking his head. “I guess.”

“I’m sure it’ll make it through just fine,” Marco concluded, holding the book out towards Jean, who took it and put it on the top shelf of his locker. The freckled boy continued, “You should start reading it after school. And text me if you have any problems!”

That said, he gave Jean a little wave and turned, heading off to his first class.

 

* * *

 

“’In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit.’” Jean mumbled quietly as he read, reciting the words aloud to himself. “’Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, no… nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.’” The words sat heavy on his tongue, and seemed to fall out of his mouth sideways, as if on accident. No matter how much he spoke English, he didn’t think his accent would ever go away. Pursing his lips, he scowled at the page of text in front of him, as if that might change the foreign-ness of the words.

Still, he kept reading, until he got about halfway through chapter one. Leaning against the back of his chair, he let out a loud sigh and closed the book, his place marked by a small sticky note.

“ _Hé, ch_ _é_ _ri, qu’_ _est-ce que tu fais?_ ” His mother asked, suddenly appearing beside him. Hey, darling, what are you doing?

“ _J’étais en train de lisais,_ ” Jean said, holding up the book and showing it to her. I was just reading.

“Oh, The Hobbit,” she said with a nod. “ _Tu le lire en anglais?_ ” You’re reading it in English?

“It’s to make my reading and writing skills better,” Jean explained. “By reading I get better at writing.”

His mother raised an eyebrow at him. “Why do you need to get better at writing?” she asked, and Jean winced slightly; he hadn’t told his parents how badly he’d failed the writing portion of his test yet, mostly because he knew they wouldn’t be very happy.

“Euh… My teacher said I need some practice,” he said, staring at the book in his hands. It wasn’t necessarily a lie—Ms. Brzenska had told him he needed to practice his writing. He was just going to try and not mention _why_ she told him that.

Of course, however, his mother knew something was up.

“Why would she tell you that?” she questioned, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re a very good writer! I remember, when you were eleven, you got a prize for having the best short story in your class.”

Jean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “ _En anglais,_ Maman,” he said. “ _Je dois pratiquer mon écriture en anglais_.” In English, Maman. I need to practice my writing in English.

His mother scoffed. “You’re good at writing in English, too,” she said. “You’re very good.” She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if something had just occurred to her. “Did you fail your English test?”

“ _Quoi?_ ” Jean glared at her, slightly insulted. “ _Non!_ I did great on my test! Why would you ask that?”

“Because,” she said, pointing at him. “You haven’t told me how you did yet. And obviously you’ve gotten it back, as you just told me you did great!”

Jean groaned. “I did perfectly fine, Maman,” he insisted. “Do you not trust me?”

“Of course I trust you, J,” his mother said. “I’m just concerned. I don’t want you failing English class. It’s going to be hard enough for you to get your _bac_ anyways, having done a year of school here, but if we stay for _another_ year, you might not even be able to get your _bac_! And failing a class will only put you further behind!”

“It’s _one test_ , Maman!” Jean cried, throwing his arms up in the air and almost launching The Hobbit across the room in the process. “I’m not going to fail a class because of one test—which I did well on, anyways!”

His mother shook her head, still scowling at him. “When I was your age, Mamie would have smacked me over the head with a book for getting anything less than a 16!” Sighing, she added, “I don’t know why I don’t do the same with you.”

“Because you’re not crazy like Mamie?” Jean suggested. “Besides, I _didn’t fail_! Stop acting like I did.”

“I’ll stop acting like you failed when you show me proof you didn’t,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Until then, you’re going to have to deal with the consequences.”

“Consequences of _what_?!” Jean asked, gaping at his mother. But instead of answering, she just turned and walked away. “What the hell?!”   

“ _Hé!_ ” his mother called, hurrying back up the hall and sticking her head around the corner, glaring at him. “ _J’ai entendu ça!_ ” I heard that!

 

* * *

 

Jean, eventually, did end up showing his parents his test. His mother, while initially glad he didn’t actually fail the whole thing, was less than impressed with his writing score.

“ _Je savais qu’il y avais une plus bonne raison pour ta pratique d’écriture,_ ” she said, grabbing the test from his hands and scanning over it. I knew there was a better reason for you writing practice.

“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing I’m trying to improve my writing,” Jean said, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at her. “I know I did badly, and I’m going to try and not let it happen again.”

His mother watched him for a few seconds, her lips pursed in thought, before eventually saying, “I’m still disappointed it was this bad to start with. But, no, I’m not mad at you for trying to improve.” Handing the test back to him, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “ _Je suis toujours fier._ ”

“Thanks, Maman,” Jean muttered, carefully folding the test up. “I’ll try.”

She smiled, gently patting her son’s cheek. “ _Bon_.”

Jean’s father, on the other hand, was much less concerned. “Eh, I was never really good with English when I was your age,” he said, shrugging and crossing his arms. “Of course, I didn’t care much about it either… But you’re good enough that you’ll get by, even if you give up trying to be fluent in it. Which I’ll never let you do, by the way. It’s a good language to know.”

 “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Jean said, nodding. “Almost every English teacher I’ve ever had always spent half their time telling us how good a skill knowing English is. I get it.”

“Just making sure,” his father mumbled. “It’s a really good thing to be bilingual.”

That, of course, launched his mother into a little rant about how Jean should try and keep learning German, which he had started a few years ago in school. Just as she was telling him that they could probably get a hold of a copy of a German Rosetta Stone disc, the phone rang, and Jean took the opportunity to dash from the living room and up the stairs to his room. He was probably safe from any language-related conversations for now, though, knowing his mother, she’d probably be at it again in a few hours.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, about eight centimeters of snow fell overnight. It was still falling when Jean woke up, gently floating to the ground in clumpy white balls, covering everything in a puffy layer. Hoisting himself up and opening his blinds, he saw that even the tops of the grass were covered, though just barely.

He was still watching the snow when, a few minutes later, his mother burst through his door, beaming widely.

“ _Il n’_ _y a pas d’école!_ ” she announced loudly, her hands on her hips. “ _Trop de neige._ ” There’s no school! Too much snow.

Jean raised an eyebrow at her, climbing down off his bed. “They actually cancelled school because of snow?” he asked, and his mother nodded.

“ _Oui!_ ” She clapped her hands together excitedly. “That means you can help me out with chores!”

“I don’t think so,” Jean said, shaking his head. “I’m not spending my extra day off _cleaning_.”

His mother glared at him, her eyebrows raised. “You’re going to do whatever I tell you to do,” she said pointedly. “And first, you’re going to clean your room. It’s a mess.”

Jean groaned, rubbing his hands across his eyes and over his face.

“Oh, _tu peux le faire_ ,” his mother said, a mockingly sympathetic tone in her voice as she reached out and patted his arm. You can do it.

“Doesn’t mean I want to…” Jean muttered, kicking at a pile of dirty clothes bunched up on the floor.

“Well you’re going to,” she said, before turning and walking out, closing the door behind her.

Jean huffed loudly, falling back onto his bed and wrapping himself up in his blankets, his face buried in a pillow.

 

* * *

 

Marco showed up at Jean’s door at around 10am, dressed like he was about to go on an arctic expedition—wearing a puffed parka with fur around the hood, a knitted cap on his head, a thick pair of mittens, and two clunky laced-up boots. He grinned widely when Jean showed up in the doorway, still dressed in his pyjamas.

“Why aren’t you dressed yet?” Marco asked, brushing his hands together, trying to shake some of the snow off them. His face was bright red, most likely from the cold, and his freckles stood out harshly against his brightly-tinged skin. “Come on, get some clothes on!”

“Did you walk here?” Jean questioned, leaning out of the door slightly to peer down the street; the only car in his driveway was his parents’, and all the other vehicles in the neighbourhood were still covered in snow.  

Marco nodded. “My mom had to use her car to get to work,” he explained. “And to drop Bea off at one of her friend’s house. I didn’t really feel like sitting around the house all alone, so I thought I’d come over. I messaged you a few times, but you never answered.”

“Oh, yes… I was, um… hiding from chores,” Jean said, shrugging. He’d stayed curled up in his sheets and blankets for at least two hours, and had actually drifted off to sleep, until his mother came banging at his door demanding to know if he’d cleaned his room yet. He was just about to _actually_ start doing what she’d asked when Marco arrived.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind me coming over,” Marco said, and Jean shook his head. The freckled boy smiled warmly at him. “Good. Now get dressed! We have things to do.”

Jean furrowed his eyebrows. “What things?” he asked, stepping further into the entryway and letting Marco inside. “What are you planning?”

“This is the first time it’s really snowed since you got here,” Marco said. “So I thought we could spend the day enjoying this almost-American-winter.”

“It snows in France, you know,” Jean said, sitting down on the bottom step and resting his elbows on his knees.

“But we’re not in France,” Marco pointed out. “We’re in the US, and you’ve never been in the US while it was snowing, have you?”

“It snowed at the beginning of the month,” Jean said, and Marco shook his head.

“That was hardly snow. Now go get dressed!”

Jean listened, trudging upstairs to his room. He was back in the entryway, wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, in a few minutes; Marco was still standing near the door, dressed up in his winter gear, and was now talking with Jean’s mother about something. They stopped when he showed up; his mother scurried off, saying she had things to do, while Marco gave him a wide smile.

“You have winter stuff, right?” he asked, and Jean nodded.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re planning now?” he questioned, going over to the closet a few feet from the foyer and digging around for his coat and boots.

“We’re going on a walk,” Marco said, fiddling slightly with the fingers of his gloves.

“Where?” Jean pulled his winter coat off its rack, shoving his arms through the sleeves and zipping it up. His boots were somewhere near the back, and he managed to get them out without causing too much of a mess.

Marco shrugged. “Wherever,” he said. “Just around town. There’s a path near here that cuts through the woods. It’s really beautiful in the winter.”

“Romantic,” Jean said, rather quietly and mostly to himself. When he turned around, however, he saw that Marco’s face was slowly turning red again, this time not from the cold. Quickly looking back at his boots, now on his feet, he added, “Just joking.”

Marco coughed, and Jean could hear him shuffling around, muttering. “Yeah… I know.”

There was a pause while Jean laced up his boots, then started searching around for a hat and gloves. Marco was staring at his hands now, and the tips of his ears were tinged red.

“You shouldn’t act like this is the first time an irresistibly attractive French boy has hit on you,” Jean said, and Marco let out a choked noise like he was being strangled. Jean turned to face him, pulling a red tuque over his head in the process and raising one eyebrow. “I’m still just joking,” he clarified, and Marco mumbled something incoherent, pulling the door open and stepping out on the front step. Jean, now fully dressed, followed him, yelling a quick goodbye to his mother and not waiting for an answer before closing the door.

He kept up with Marco’s pace as they walked down the driveway and along the road, silent save for the crunch of their feet against the snow, which was still falling from the sky.

“Are you okay?” Jean asked when they reached the end of his street, glancing over at Marco. His face was still red, though now it was more likely from the cold wind blowing at them than anything else.

Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “You just… surprised me.”

Jean chewed the inside of his cheek, scowling slightly at the ground. “I… hope I didn’t make you… uncomfortable, or anything,” he said, and Marco shook his head.

“No,” he insisted. “I just wasn’t expecting you to say something like that.”

“I apologize,” Jean said, and it was sincere. He wasn’t really sure what had made him say what he had, but it had fit with the situation and he’d thought it was funny—he’d just been hoping to make Marco laugh.

 _Toi et tes tâches de rousseur…_ he thought, turning and facing Marco. You and your freckles…

The boy in question recoiled slightly when Jean looked at him, just barely managing to avoid slipping on a patch of ice. “Uh… Jean… What’s up with your face?” he asked, and Jean realized that he’d twisted his features into an unhappy grimace.

Quickly schooling his expression back into a more natural look, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat as he and Marco continued along in a strange silence that, while not entirely awkward, wasn’t very comfortable to withstand, either. They walked a few blocks like that, with Jean staring at his feet and kicking at the snow covering the gravel.

When they rounded a corner, this time onto a much narrower street with trees on one side that grouped into a forest, Marco turned to him.

“Do you know any wintry words in French?” he asked, breaking the silence. Jean raised an eyebrow at him, the corners of his lips turning up slightly.

“Nope,” he answered, shaking his head. “It’s strange, but in my seventeen years of speaking French, I have managed to not learn a single word related to winter. Not one.”

Marco narrowed his eyes at him, before his cheeks flushed an even brighter shade of red and he groaned, burying his face in his gloved hands. “That’s not what I meant,” he moaned, and Jean burst out laughing.

“However, I know a whole bunch of words in French relating to summer, fall, and spring,” he continued, a teasing grin spreading across his face. Heaving a melodramatically wistful sigh, he added, “Winter has always escaped me.”

“God…” Marco wailed, shaking his head into his hands. “I just wanted to know what snow and cold and snowman are in French… I never asked for this.”

Jean laughed again, glad to feel the awkward air that had been hanging around them dissipate, like it had never been there. Crouching down, he scooped up a handful of snow, roughly patting it into a ball shape. Slowly standing back up, he proceeded to launch it at Marco, who still hadn’t noticed, crying, “ _Boule de neige!_ ”

Marco let out a scream of surprise as the snowball hit him in the side of the head, finally moving his hands from his face and turning to glare at Jean.

“What the heck!” he yelled, wiping at the snow now clinging to his hair and hat. “What was that for?!”

Jean grinned widely at him. “You wanted to know winter words in French,” he said. “I thought a demonstration would help you learn better.”

Marco was on the ground with a ball of snow in his hands in seconds. He had barely stood up all the way before he was throwing it at Jean, hitting the French boy right in the face. Jean let out a stream of curses, most of them French mixed with a few English, as he rubbed the snow from his eye.

“Do you really want to do this?” he asked Marco, scowling at him. “Because you will lose.”

Marco just smirked at him, before quickly making another snowball and chucking it in Jean’s direction, not really caring if it hit him or not—he didn’t stick around to see either. Within seconds, he was off the street and charging through the woods, ignoring the branches that whipped at his face and the snow that fell from the trees.

“I’m the champion at snowball wars!” he called as he heard the cracking of sticks behind him, telling him that Jean was after him; a few seconds later, a snowball hit a tree to his right, missing him by at least two feet.

They ran like this for a while, with Marco managing to avoid most of the snowballs Jean threw at him. When he knew he was getting close to the path, Marco ducked behind a tree, quietly and carefully scooping up a handful of snow and patting it into the right shape. Less than a minute later, Jean appeared right beside him, noticing the freckled boy right as it was too late—Marco leapt out from behind the tree, tackling Jean to the ground and shoving the snowball in his face.

“Evil!” Jean cried, sputtering and spitting snow from his mouth. “You are evil, Marco Bodt! All this time I thought you were a reincarnation of Jesus, but it was fake! You are a monster!”

Marco laughed, rolling off Jean and into the snow beside him, not caring as it soaked through his jeans and chilled the back of his neck. Beside him, Jean griped and moaned about how wet and cold his face was now, and that there were “at least ten sticks poking him in the back”. Despite his complaints, however, he didn’t move, and when Marco looked over at him he was staring up at the branches above them, his face almost the same colour as his tuque  and covered in a sheen of melted snow.

“We always seem to end up lying on our backs on the ground,” Marco observed, turning from Jean to study the grey sky poking out between the leafless branches. Tiny snowflakes were still falling gently to the ground, though it seemed like it would be stopping soon; as they lay there, one landed on Marco’s cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it off.

“You always want to see the stars, even when they are not there,” Jean said, and Marco hummed.

“That’s very poetic,” Marco said. “I never really pegged you as a spur-of-the-moment-poem person.”

Jean chuckled. “The mood was right,” he explained. “But don’t get used to it. That was probably a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

“Good.” Marco nodded, and Jean looked over at him, a confused expression on his face. Marco continued, “Being poetic doesn’t suit you. I like the awkward, fumbling Jean who never really knows what to say and always blurts out the stupidest things, just because it’s what he thought of first.” He smiled, before hoisting himself up into a sitting position and pulling his hat off, shaking the snow out. “Besides, anything poetic that comes out of your mouth is bound to be cheesy.”

Jean narrowed his eyes at him. “Wha… What?” he asked, bolting up and staring at Marco. “I am not cheesy! Everything that I say is worth publishing!”

Marco didn’t even bother to play along with the joke; he just shook his head and stood up, trying to brush some of the snow off his pants. Jean did the same, and found that he was significantly more soaked than Marco, most likely due to the vicious surprise attack he’d had to endure.

“I don’t really think we can go on a walk like this,” Marco said.

“Unless that walk is to home,” Jean added, teeth chattering slightly as he realized just how cold he was.

Marco nodded, and they started the trudge back to Jean’s house, this time taking the path instead of the forest. By the time they reached Jean’s street, both their pants were frozen stiff from the snow, and Jean could barely feel his nose. A huge wave of relief washed over him when they, finally, walked through the front door into his nicely heated home, immediately kicking off his boots and shaking his wet gloves off his hands and onto the floor. Marco was more neat about talking his stuff off, actually untying his boots and placing them neatly by the door, carefully stacking the rest of his stuff beside them.

“You two look freezing,” Jean’s mother appeared in the entryway just as Jean finished peeling off his coat, dumping it on top of his boots, gloves, and hat.

“We ended up falling into the snow,” Marco explained, and Jean snapped his head towards him, scowling.

“You mean you tackled me into the snow,” he said, and his mother laughed.

“I do not even want to know,” she said with a wave, turning and walking to the kitchen. “I will make you two some hot chocolate. Why don’t you change into some dry clothes while I’m doing it?”

Jean lent Marco a pair of his sweatpants; they were a bit too short, but otherwise fit fine. He himself just ended up in a different pair of pajama pants than the ones he’d started the day with, despite the fact that it wasn’t even noon. He just figured he’d change if he had to.

The hot chocolate was ready when they went back downstairs. They each took a mug and sat down in the living room, turning on the TV, which was showing the news from earlier in the day. Jean flipped through the channels for a while until they found something good enough to watch (Deadliest Warrior), and then they sat sipping their mugs as the hosts tried to figure out who would win in a fight—William Wallace or Shaka Zulu.

“William Wallace is totally gonna win,” Marco said, setting his mug down on the coffee table and leaning back against the couch.

“How do you know?” Jean asked. “Shaka Zulu seems like he could take anybody in a fight.”

“Well, I’ve seen this episode before, so I know how it ends,” Marco said, and Jean rolled his eyes. “William Wallace wins. He was a European; they had some insane weapons, seeing as they’re all crazy.”

Jean glowered at him. “I’m a European.”

“That just proves my point,” Marco gave him a smug grin; Jean just shook his head. A few seconds later, Marco continued, “Speaking of crazy Europeans. Eren’s having a party this weekend, and told me to invite you.”

“What does that have to do with crazy Europeans?”

“Eren’s German,” Marco explained. “Well, _he_ wasn’t born in Germany, but all of his grandparents were. And he’s inviting a bunch of Europeans. Like you, and Reiner, and Bertholdt. And I think that Annie girl.”

“Is this going to be one of those typical American parties you see in movies all the time?” Jean asked.

Marco pondered his question for a moment, before nodding. “Probably,” he said. “Eren doesn’t really throw parties often, but when he does they sometimes get a little… out of control. I went to one once, I think, but I left when it got too crazy.”

“And you want me to go to one of those?”

“It’s not as bad as it seems,” Marco insisted. “And anyways, we could leave whenever we wanted. I wasn’t planning on staying long anyways.”

Jean sighed. “I’ll think about it…” he muttered, and Marco grinned at him.

“You’re coming,” he concluded, having already decided for Jean, before turning back to the TV. “Now let’s watch this ball and chain _destroy_ that ice dummy.”

 

* * *

 

Eren’s party was set to have started at around 7:30pm. Jean and Marco left Jean’s house just after 7:40, piling into Connie’s old beat-up minivan and climbing around Christa and Ymir, who were in the middle, to sit in the back. The ride to Eren’s house was loud and actually a bit scary, mostly due to Connie’s less-than-excellent driving skills.

“You’re going to get us killed!” Sasha screeched as he rounded a corner a bit too quickly, lurching everyone to the side. “I _told_ you to let me drive!”

“You’d probably get us killed, too!” Connie argued, taking his eyes off the road to glare at her. “Who knows how they teach you to drive in Canada!”

“Probably better than the US, going off _your_ skills,” Sasha said. “Now face the road! Good God.”

“Christa’s driving us back,” Ymir suddenly piped up, leaning forward and sticking her face between the two front seats, where Sasha and Connie were. Turning to Connie, she said, “You’re probably going to be absolutely off your face by ten, and I’m not letting you drive.”

Connie scowled, though this time he didn’t look towards her. “Are you saying I’m gonna be drunk?” he asked, and Ymir  nodded. Connie continued, “Well, who’s to say Christa won’t be drunk?”

“I don’t drink,” the blonde said. “So I volunteered to be the designated driver.”

“I’m not gonna get _that_ drunk,” Connie countered. “Maybe a few drinks, but not too—”

“I don’t care!” Ymir cried, cutting him off. “Stop trying to get me to let you drive; it’s not happening.”

“It’s my car!”

“Yeah, and it’s my life, asshole, so shut up and drive.”

That, of course, set Sasha off singing, belting the lyrics to Rihanna’s “Shut Up and Drive” with surprising accuracy.

“ _’Cause it’s zero to sixty in three point five. Baby you got the keys… now shut up and drive, drive, drive. Shut up and drive, drive, drive._ ”

Ymir joined in each time she hit the chorus, leaning close and practically yelling them in Connie’s ear.

“Holy shit, will you two _shut up_!” he yelled, as the two started chanting “drive, drive, drive” over and over. “Or I _will_ turn this car around!”

From the back, Jean called, “Come on, Connie, just shut up and drive!”

Connie grabbed the empty water bottle sitting in the cup holder beside him and chucked it at Jean. The car swerved slightly as he did so, and the bottle landed, harmless, right between Jean and Marco. Connie didn’t talk to anyone for the rest of the ride.

 

* * *

 

It was almost 8pm when they arrived at the party, which was already in full swing. Despite the cold, which would just get more intense as the night dragged on, several windows were open, and music, laughing, and talking could be heard through them as they walked up the driveway to the front door.

Ymir, at the front of the group, didn’t bother knocking before she twisted the door open and stepped inside. Several people turned to look as the six of them walked into the entryway, but they just as quickly went back to their own conversations and drinks.

Armin, who had been standing off to the side of the door talking to someone, scurried over to them when they showed up, smiling.

“Hey!” he greeted, waving at them. “You can put your coats in the room over there.” He gestured to a French door set into the wall to the right, which led to what looked like some sort of office and had a piece of paper taped to it that read ‘COAT ROOM’. Beneath that sign, someone had taped another one that had coat room written on it in three different languages—French ( _vestiaire_ ), German ( _Garderobe_ ), and Russian ( _гapдepoб_ ). Armin visibly winced as they all glanced at the signs, shaking his head. “Yeah, the signs were Eren’s idea… I don’t know why he thought the bottom one was necessary. But whatever. You can just leave your shoes anywhere in the entryway.”

Everyone complied, kicking their shoes off into one of the many piles around the door, and then tossing their jackets into the “coat room”. Armin explained to them that there were drinks and stuff in the kitchen, then left to go back to his conversation.

“I’m going to get a drink!” Ymir announced rather loudly, grabbing Christa’s hand and heading off towards the kitchen, yelling over her shoulder, “Anyone’s welcome to join me if they like.”

Sasha and Connie followed, the former wondering aloud if there would be anything other than cheap beer and Coke. As the four of them turned down a hallway and disappeared, Jean and Marco were left standing in the entryway, glancing around at all the people gathered around them.

“How boring do you think this is going to be?” Jean asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Marco shrugged. “I’ve been to one of Eren’s parties before,” he said. “It wasn’t _too_ bad. Except at one point Eren pulled out a karaoke machine. And that just devolved into a bunch of drunk teenagers singing the lyrics to random songs. It wasn’t pretty.”

Jean grinned, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I don’t know if I want to see that happen or not,” he said, and Marco shook his head.

“You definitely don’t,” he insisted, wincing as if just the memory of the night was painful.   

“I will take your word for it,” Jean said. “Do you want to get a drink, or something? There doesn’t seem to be much else to do.”

Marco nodded, and they started weaving their way through the crowds of teenagers, some of whom were already a bit tipsy.

The kitchen was packed, full of people grabbing drinks and eating from bowls of chips set out on a table. Sasha, Connie, Ymir, and Christa were all gathered near the back door, sipping from cans of beer and pop. Ymir was talking and waving her arms around wildly, telling some sort of story and nearly hitting three people in the face in the process.

“Can someone tell me what an Australian looks like?” Jean heard her ask, glancing around the group. “Because _somehow_ that fucker guessed that I was Australian before I’d even said a word to him. Like obviously if I’d actually talked to him he’d know where I was from, but before I could even introduce myself he was asking what part of Australia I’m from. Like what the fuck? That’s just creepy! Then he had the nerve to try and hit on me! Seriously, I almost punched him in the middle of his stupid American face.”

Connie let out a snort, and Ymir snapped her head towards him, glaring. “I just realized,” he said, laughing now as he spoke, his words coming out breathy and hard to understand. “You’re a dyke from down under.”

Ymir rolled her eyes, trying to be annoyed but not managing to hold back the smile that slipped across her lips. “Yeah, I’ve been down under, alright,” she countered.

Sasha choked on her drink. Christa’s face started to turn the shade of the red skirt she was wearing, and Ymir just stood there with a smug grin on her face as Connie practically pissed himself laughing.

Turning to Marco, Jean said, “Our friends are weird.”

Marco nodded, agreeing, and they both grabbed a drink before leaving the kitchen to find someplace less crowded.

 

* * *

 

Jean was drunk by the time 10:30pm rolled around.

Not the stumbling around, messing up words kind of drunk.

The kind of drunk where he basically forgot half the English language and tried to start a fight with everyone and everything, ranging from Christa to a potted plant.

“Oh my God, Marco…” he mumbled, staggering towards the freckled boy and throwing his arms around his shoulders. “Oh… my God. _Sais_ … _Non, non_ … Did… Did you know. Did you know, how great Eren is? Like seriously… I’m being serious here. Stop laughing. Stop laughing!” He glared at Marco, who had started chuckling to himself over Jean; he wasn’t anywhere near as drunk as the French boy was—tipsy, at worst, which meant everything Jean did was absolutely and hilariously ridiculous.

“Marco, _arrêter de rire_. _J’suis sérieux_.” Jean said, gently smacking Marco’s arms. Marco, stop laughing. I’m serious. “Eren… Is amazing. He’s so funny. Like… _hilarant_. What’s that in English? I don’t know. But that’s what he is.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Marco said, patting Jean’s shoulder. “Come on, why don’t you sit down? And have some water.”

“Water is for the weak…” Jean muttered, but he didn’t protest when Marco dragged him to the living room and sat him down on the couch, right beside Ymir and Christa, who were practically hanging over each other making out.

“Oh, _merde_!” Jean cried, looking at them and scrunching his face up. “I knew you were lesbians! God!”

“Hey, Jeanny boy,” Ymir said, pulling away from Christa to glower at him. Her words were slightly slurred, and her face was tinged red, though that could be from more than just the all the alcohol she’d drank. “Do me a favour and shut the fuck up.”

“Don’t swear at me!”

“I’ll swear at whoever the fuck I fucking want, cunt.”

Jean gasped, splaying his hand over his chest in shock. “You’re mean!”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

That said, she went back to kissing Christa. Curling his lip up in disgust, Jean looked towards Marco, letting out a distressed whine.

“The Austrian was mean to me,” he announced, and Marco shook his head.

“I think you mean Australian.”

Jean narrowed his eyes at him. “Really?” he asked, his head leaning to the side. “Because I’m 100% sure they’re the same thing.”

“They’re not,” Marco explained, almost as if he was talking to a small child. “Austrians are from Austria—Australians are from Australia.”

“Well, _putain_ ,” Jean mumbled, falling back against the couch like everything in his life up until that point was suddenly obsolete. “There goes _everything_ I know. Seriously, Marco… _Tous_.”

Marco raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit melodramatic.”

“It’s not,” Jean shook his head and sighed, looking down at his hands and picking at his fingernails. “ _Putain_ …”

 

* * *

 

At around 11pm, Eren broke out the karaoke machine. Jean almost tripped over himself in his hurry to get to the microphone first, grabbing it from Eren’s hands and holding it up to his mouth.

“I’ve been waiting my entire life for this moment,” he said, and Marco rolled his eyes; he’d stopped drinking when Jean started showing signs of being too drunk to function, and was slowly sobering up. Almost everyone around him, however, was just as drunk as Jean, or close to it.

They all cheered when the first notes to “Toxic” by Britney Spears started playing, and the lyrics rolled onto the screen.

“ _Baby, ‘n’t you see… ‘m calling. A guy like you… should wear a ‘ning._ ” Marco winced as Jean stumbled over the words, both his accent and all the alcohol in his system making them almost impossible to understand. He made it through about half of the song before he gave up and just stood there, spewing random words that kind of went along to the tune. When he was done, both Eren and Connie were on the ground rolling with laughter, and Jean started challenging the two of them to a fight.

“Dude, no,” Connie heaved, managing to pull himself up into a sitting position. “You’re way too drunk. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“ _Je ne soucie pas_!” Jean cried. “Fight me! Come on!”

Marco quickly stepped in, before Jean actually did try fighting either Connie or Eren, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him from the living room to the entryway, pulling the front door open. They stood on the threshold, not actually going outside but letting the cold night air blow past them into the house. Their breath curled up in smoke in front of them, and Jean sighed, leaning against the door frame.

“I’m tired,” he muttered, the energy from his almost-fight with Connie and Eren quickly draining from him. “I think… We should go home soon.”

Marco nodded. “We will,” he said. “I think Ymir’s going to be herding us all out the door in a while.”

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Ymir did force the six of them out the door and into Connie’s van, Jean had managed to down another half can of beer, his energy returning at full-force. He spent the entire ride singing French pop songs, swinging from side to side and bumping his shoulder against Marco’s over and over and over again.

 “ _Eh, tu t’es regardé, tu t’crois beau, parce que tu t’es marié. Mais c’est qu’un anneaux, mec, t’emballe pas. Elle va t’largeur, comme elles le font chaque fois. Et puis l’autre fille, tu lui en as parle? Si tu veux j’lui dis, comme ça c’est réglé. Et au p’tit, aussi, enfin si vous en avez… Attends trois ans, sept ans, et là vous verrez… Si c’est formidable! Fooormidable!”_

“ _J’me tire, me demande pas pourquoi j’suis parti sans motif. Parfois je sens mon cœur qui s’endurcit. C’est triste à dire mais plus rien n’m’attriste. Laisse-moi partir loin d’ici!_ ”

“ _L’ééééééquiliiiiiibre est fragile, quand on navigue entre les rives! Je commence, tu termines, l’orage nous tient… immobile!_ ”

“ _Vingt mille façons de dire je t’aime… Vingt mille raisons d’ne pas le dire._ _Très peu de chance qu’on le comprenne, que fera-t-on pour se détruire?_ Come on, Marco, sing with me.”

“Jean, you do realize you’re going to have to act _sober_ in front of you parents, right? If they found out I let you get drunk they’ll probably kill me.”

Jean shrugged. “They p’bably won’t care,” he said. “’S’long as I don’t do it a lot.”  

Marco sighed, shaking his head and turning to face the window as Jean started singing again.

“ _Quand il le voit,_ _ça fait boum boum boum... Bada bada boum boum... Ça fait boum boum, quand il le voit._ ”

 

* * *

 

Jean’s parents were, luckily, asleep when the two of them arrived. They’d decided earlier in the day that Marco would spend the night at Jean’s, and they’d both promised to be back around midnight. It was 12:23am by the time they crept in through the door; the house was completely dark, and they were able to quietly slip upstairs and into Jean’s room without waking anyone up.

Thankfully, they’d set up a mattress on the floor before they left, so they didn’t have to worry about doing that or sharing Jean’s unfortunately small sized bed. Within seconds of stripping down to just his underwear, Jean was crawling into said bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and snuggling into the pillows.

Marco, being the more sober of the two, actually put in the effort to change into pajamas before getting into bed, turning out the light before doing so. Right before drifting off to sleep, exhausted from having to deal with the drunken shenanigans of Jean and many others, Marco mumbled, “You’re going to have a huge headache tomorrow.”

Jean’s response was barely audible, quiet and muttered into the fabric of his blanket. “Oh well.”

“Good luck dealing with that.”

“I will live.”

A few minutes passed, and Marco slowly fell asleep. Jean stayed awake for a while longer, blinking blearily at the lines the streetlight outside made on his ceiling. Finally, right before he was about to drift off, he whispered, just loud enough to make a sound, “ _Je t’aime_.”

His words bounced through the darkness, falling on slumbering and drunk ears, and then he was sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
>  _bonhomme de neige_ : snowman
> 
>  _Vive la révolution_ : I doubt this one is necessary but if you don't know it means "Long live the revolution".
> 
>  _Quoi_ : What
> 
>  _Mamie_ : French term of endearment for grandmother, like Granny, Nana, etc...
> 
>  _Je suis toujours fier_ : I'm still proud (it could also be "I'm always proud" because _toujours_ is a stupid word)
> 
>  _Boule de neige_ : You probably guessed this but it means snowball
> 
>  _Sais_ : Know. He was trying to say _Sais-tu_ , which means "Do you know".
> 
>  _hilarant_ : hilarious
> 
>  _Tous_ : everything
> 
>  _Je ne soucie pas_ : I don't care
> 
>  _Eh, tu t’es regardé, tu t’crois beau, parce que tu t’es marié. Mais c’est qu’un anneaux, mec, t’emballe pas. Elle va t’largeur, comme elles le font chaque fois. Et puis l’autre fille, tu lui en as parle? Si tu veux j’lui dis, comme ça c’est réglé. Et au p’tit, aussi, enfin si vous en avez… Attends trois ans, sept ans, et là vous verrez… Si c’est formidable! Fooormidable!_ \- Lyrics from "Formidable" by Stromae. Rough-ish translation would be: Oh, you looked at yourself, you believe yourself to be pretty, because you got married. But it's just a ring, dude, don't pack. She'll leave you, like they do each time. And then the other girl, you talked to her? If you want I'll tell her, like it's ruled. And to the little one, too, that is if you have one... Wait three years, seven years, and then there you'll see... If it's wonderful! Wonderful!
> 
>  _J’me tire, me demande pas pourquoi j’suis parti sans motif. Parfois je sens mon cœur qui s’endurcit. C’est triste à dire mais plus rien n’m’attriste. Laisse-moi partir loin d’ici!_ \- From "J'me tire" by Maître Gims. Translation: I'm leaving, don't ask me why I'm leaving without a reason. Sometimes I feel my heart that's hardening. It's sad to say but nothing make me sad anymore. Let me go far from here!
> 
>  _L’ééééééquiliiiiiibre est fragile, quand on navigue entre les rives! Je commence, tu termines, l’orage nous tient… immobile!_ \- From "L'équilibre" by Kyo. Translation: The balance is fragile, when we navigate between the banks. I start, you finish, the storms holds us... immobile!
> 
>  _Quand il le voit, ça fait boum boum boum... Bada bada boum boum... Ça fait boum boum, quand il le voit._ \- From "Un jour ou l'autre" by Jali. Translation: When he sees him, it goes boom boom boom... Bada bada boom boom... It goes boom boom, when he sees him. (in the original, the lyrics are _Quand il la voit..._ , which means "When he sees her", so Jean changed the pronouns while singing it)


	4. Vide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers, Thanksgiving, and a quiet car two days after Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a tiny change to some things that occur earlier on in the chapter--Jean's now bisexual, not gay. It doesn't change anything that's going to happen from here on out, and only a few sentences have been changed. But yeah I figured I should point that out.
> 
> Chapter Title: Empty
> 
> Lyrics: Him, he's my whole world and more than that,
> 
> Alone, I cry his name when confusion comes,
> 
> And then everything collapses when he's no longer there.
> 
> I would really like to tell, but I don't dare...
> 
> Him, who makes me
> 
> Turn in the void, void,
> 
> Turn in the void, void
> 
> Turn in the void, he makes me turn
> 
> In the void, void, void.

_Lui, il est tout mon monde et bien plus que ça,_

_Seule, je crie son nom quand vient le désarroi,_

_Et puit tout s’effondre quand il n’est plus là._

_J’aimerais tellement lui dire, mais je n’ose pas…_

_Lui qui m’fais_

_Tourner dans le vide, vide._

_Tourner dans le vide, vide._

_Tourner dans le vide, il me fait tourner_

_Dans le vide, vide, vide._

_-Tourner dans le vide,_ Indila

 

* * *

 

Jean didn’t wake up until it was almost noon. The late morning sunlight was floating through the blinds pulled over his windows, creating lines that stretched along his bed and onto the floor. He’d been awake for less than two seconds, however, when he felt an excruciating pain pound against his forehead, like someone was hitting him with a hammer.

“ _Putain de merde…_ ” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at them with the heels of his hands, though that didn’t do anything but make spots that floated in his vision. The pounding continued, and a wave of nausea washed over him, so intense that he was positive he was going to throw up, right then and there.

“You’re awake, I see.”

Jean cracked his eyelids open just enough to see Marco sitting, crossed-legged, on the mattress by his bed, grinning smugly at him. The light, however, soon proved too harsh for him, and he quickly snapped his eyes shut again, grabbing his pillow and burying his face in it.

“Hangover’s that bad, huh?” Marco asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the edge of Jean’s bed. “You didn’t think about this when you drank five cans of beer last night, did you?”

“Marco,” Jean mumbled, burrowing deeper into his pile of blankets and pillows. “I am going to ask you to either stop talking, or talk in French. English this early in the morning with a hangover like this is not good. Not good.”

Marco just laughed, and a few seconds later, Jean could hear the sound of someone tapping on a keyboard. Furrowing his eyebrows, he peeked one eye out of his nest just long enough to see that Marco now had a laptop balanced on his knees, and was typing something into it.

“Is that my laptop?” he asked, retreating back into his burrow, and Marco nodded.

“Your mom pulled it out for me,” he explained. “I’ve been up since like ten, and I was pretty much dying of boredom. I’m surprised there was no porn in the history. Unless you deleted it—”

“Shhh,” Jean hushed, cutting him off.. “No more words. Not—wait, why were you looking for porn in my history?”

Marco didn’t respond; he just kept typing, and Jean was left to come up with his own reasons as to why Marco was searching for porn on his computer. Of course, those thoughts brought some rather inappropriate images to his mind, and he quickly became even more thankful for his blanket fort.

“Comment voo sentayz-voo?”

“Uh…” Jean stuck part of his head out of the covers to see Marco looking at him expectantly. “What?”

The freckled boy scowled slightly. “Did I say that wrong?”

Jean raised an eyebrow at him. “Were you trying to speak _French_?” he asked, and Marco groaned.

“Yeah, I was,” he admitted. “But apparently my accent’s off… Okay, here.” He clicked something, and a robotic voice came out of the laptop’s speakers, pronouncing the phrase much better than Marco had, actually making it understandable.

“ _Comment vous sentez-vous?_ ” Jean repeated, and Marco nodded.

“Yeah!” he grinned proudly. “That makes sense, right?”

“Mhmm,” Jean hummed, nodding, before ducking back under the covers. “To answer it, though, I am doing fine.”

Marco clapped his hands triumphantly, before typing something else into the computer; a few seconds later, the robotic voice asked, “ _Avez-vous un mal de tête?_ ”

From deep inside the pile of pillows, Jean laughed quietly to himself. “ _C’est ridicule_ …” he mumbled, before adding, louder, “Yes, I do have a headache.”

“ _Vous vous moquez de moi?_ ” the laptop asked, and Jean moaned slightly.

“Yes, I am making fun of you,” he said. “The computer is too polite. You are using Google Translate, aren’t you?”

Marco didn’t respond for a few seconds. “It’s the easiest thing, since you didn’t want me speaking English…” he mumbled.

“ _J’aime ta voix plus que celle de l’ordinateur,_ ” Jean said. “ _Le tien est plus belle._ ” I like your voice more than the computer’s. Yours is more beautiful. A few seconds later Marco was typing something again, and Jean basically fell out of bed in his haste to cry, “Don’t translate that!”

Marco raised an eyebrow at him. “Whoa, I wasn’t going to,” he said, raising his hands off the keyboard and holding them up. “What, do you like to tell me all your dirty secrets in French?”

Jean could feel his face reddening at the realization that Marco wasn’t that far off. Clearing his throat loudly, he shook his head, crawling back under his blankets and pillows. “No, I do not do that,” he said pointedly, scowling at the fabric covering his face.

“Whatever you say,” Marco sang.

“Ugh, _ferme ta gueule,_ Marco Bodt!” Jean yelled, as loud as he could without the driving pain in his head getting worse.

Marco didn’t say anything; he just chuckled, and kept tapping away on the keyboard.

A few moments of silence passed. Jean lied, wallowing in his hungover pity pile, his eyes shut as he tried to drive away the headache and nausea. Soon, however, the blankets became stuffy and hot, and he had to pull them back from his face to avoid suffocating.

“You doing okay, there?” Marco asked, glancing up when he heard Jean gasping, as if he had just surfaced after being underwater for a long time.

“It was too hot in there,” the French boy mumbled, though he yanked the covers up to his nose.

“You sound like you were suffocating,” Marco remarked. “How’s your headache?”

Jean shrugged, letting out a low groan. The bright light streaming into his room was starting to hurt his eyes, so he screwed them shut, and tried to snuggle deeper into his blankets without cutting off the fresh air. “Can you get me some pills?” he asked, dragging his hands across his slightly sweaty face.

“Where would they be?” Marco questioned, gently putting the laptop down beside him and standing up.

“Bathroom. Second drawer. I think… it’s aceta… mino… phen? Acetaminophen?”

“Sounds right,” Marco said, and was about to walk out the door when Jean quickly added, “Don’t let my parents know I have a headache. My mom will automatically assume I have a hangover, and she will kill me.”

“Got it,” Marco nodded, and ducked out into the hallway.

A few minutes later, he came back, two pills and a glass of water in hand.

“You even got me some water,” Jean said, taking the pills and cup from him. “You are too good for me.”

Marco blushed a bit, scratching at his arms. “I just figured you wouldn’t want to dry swallow the pills,” he explained, shrugging. “So yeah.”

Sitting up so he wouldn’t spill water all over himself—though he managed to keep most of himself covered by the blankets—Jean swallowed both pills in one gulp, and drank about half the cup in five seconds. Marco plopped himself down near the end of Jean’s bed, though he was careful not to sit on the boy’s feet, which were almost completely obscured by the layers of blankets piled on them.

“You’ve probably sweated all the alcohol from your system,” Marco commented, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. “You’re gonna overheat and die.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jean said. He was slowly growing used to the light of his room, and the nausea was beginning to subside, though the pain continued to pound in his forehead. Slowly, he shuffled more of his body out of the blankets, until he was only covered from the waist down.

Marco smiled at him. “I knew you were hot,” he said.

Jean blinked. Then, he let out a loud laugh, grinning from ear to ear as Marco’s face turned bright red. “Wow, Marco, I know I’m attractive, but I never expected you to think so,” he said, and Marco scowled at him.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” he cried, crossing his arms indignantly. “God! You’re like a bad eighth grader!”

“You’re blushing, though,” Jean pointed on, leaning towards Marco. “Do you actually think I’m hot?”

Marco let out a loud groan, covering his face with his hands and falling back, overtop of Jean’s legs; he overestimated the width of Jean’s bed, however, and ended up smacking his head, hard, on the wall.

“Ah! Ow!” he yelped, rolling onto his side and placing his hands on the back of his wounded head. “Gah…”

Jean had to try not to laugh, crawling out from underneath Marco to go over and inspect him. “Are you okay?”

“My head hurts…” Marco whined, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position. “It’s your fault!”

Jean gaped at him. “How?!” he demanded. “You are the one who fell back and hit his head!”

“I fell back because you were being stupid!” Marco countered, pouting. “None of this would have happened if you had just let the fact that I called you hot be!”

“Oh, so you really were calling me hot?” Jean asked, unable to resist. Marco let out a frustrated cry, flopping off of Jean’s bed and onto the mattress on the floor.

“Stop!” he wailed. “You _know_ what I meant, so stop twisting my words!”

Jean smirked, falling onto his stomach and propping himself up with his elbows. “I’m just surprised you find me so attractive,” he admitted.

Despite Jean’s persistent teasing, Marco still managed to crack a smile, laughing at how ridiculous the whole thing was. “There are many things you don’t know about me, Jean Kirschtein,” he said.

Jean raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh? Like what?”

Marco leaned against the bed, mimicking Jean’s position. “I’m a huge fan of polka music,” he said. “I like to listen to it when I’m by myself, dressed up in lederhosen. I’ve even started to learn the accordion because of it. My favourite group is the Six Fat Dutchmen; I own all their records on vinyl. I also own at least fifty-six dildos, the majority of which are from Bad Dragon. I have a secret cellar I keep them in.”

Jean blinked, staring at him, his mouth hanging open. “I… what?”

Marco burst out laughing, leaning back from the bed. “Did you seriously believe me?” he cried. “Oh my God, Jean! You’re amazing.”

“Ah, _bâtard!_ ” Jean yelled, grabbing a pillow and chucking it at the freckle boy. “That’s cruel!”

Marco shook his head, still chuckling. “Did you really think I like polka music?” he asked. “Or that I collect _dildos_?”

“You’re mean, Marco Bodt!” Jean said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You just keep showing that you are not the kind saint everything thinks you are. Is that all a disguise?”

“You’re getting pretty worked up about a little joke,” Marco commented. “Are you just cranky ‘cause you’re hangover?”

“Oh, be quiet,” Jean mumbled, glaring at Marco.

Marco just laughed again, and Jean flopped onto his back, staring angrily at the ceiling. “I’m super nice, by the way,” Marco added a few seconds later, but Jean ignored him.

They lay in silence for a while, and it looked at lot like they had just had a serious argument—Jean was scowling at the ceiling, as if it was to blame for all his problems, and Marco was quietly picking at lint balls sticking to the quilt gathered around his feet. However, neither of them were actually mad at the other, and the silence around them was comfortable and companionable.

Marco broke it a few minutes later. “Hey, Jean,” he said, and the boy rolled onto his side to face him, his expression softening considerably. “What’s book in French?”

“ _Livre_ ,” Jean replied, his eyebrows raised in question. “Why?”

Marco shrugged. “I was just wondering. Is it masculine or feminine?”

“ _Masculin_ ,” Jean said. “ _Le livre._ ”

“Use it in a sentence.”

Jean paused slightly, thinking up something to say, before replying, “ _Le livre est sur la table._ ”

Marco hummed thoughtfully. “The book is… something.”

Jean smirked, flipping onto his stomach and resting his chin on his arms. “The book is on the table,” he corrected. “ _Le livre est sur la table._ ”

Marco repeated the sentence as best as he could, though his R’s were too harsh and his words too choppy. “What about… bed?” he asked, after a few more attempts at saying _livre_ correctly. “What’s that in French?”

“ _Le lit,_ ” Jean answered. “It’s also masculine.”

“Use that in a sentence,” Marco said, grabbing the blanket at his feet and wrapping it around his shoulders. “A simple one, though.”

“ _Je suis sur mon lit._ ”

Marco thought for a moment, mulling over what Jean had just said. “ _Je_ is… ‘I’ right?” he asked, beaming widely when Jean nodded. “I don’t really know about the rest.”

“I am on my bed,” Jean clarified, though he smiled proudly at Marco, like a teacher to his student. “ _Je suis sur mon lit._ ”

They went on like this for almost an hour, with Marco suggesting words for Jean to translate, and Jean putting them in sentences. Marco would try and figure some of the phrases out, but most of the time he was completely lost; however, he then insisted on deconstructing the sentence, word by word, until he knew which meant what.

“ _Il y a un crayon sur la commode,_ ” Jean said, repeating the sentence for about the fifth time. “ _Il y a_ means ‘there is’, _un crayon_ means ‘a pencil’, _sur_ means ‘on’, and _la commode_ means ‘the dresser’. Okay?”

Marco squinted at him, his face twisted in confusion. “Why is _il y a_ ‘there is’, though?” he asked.

“That’s just how it is,” Jean said. “I don’t really know. If you want to know, ask an actual qualified French teacher.”

Marco scowled, but shrugged, sighing a bit. “Whatever. So, that means ‘There is a pencil on the dresser’?”

Jean nodded. “Soon, you’ll be perfectly fluent,” he teased, and Marco pursed his lips slightly.

“I wish,” he muttered.

A few minutes later, his mother pulled up in front of the Kirschteins’ house, and Marco left. Jean went back up to his room almost right after and, even though it was coming up on 3pm, he collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

About a week later, long after Jean had recovered from the effects of Eren’s party, Marco came to a sudden realization as the two of them sat in science class, slowly working through a set of questions.  

 “You’ve never celebrated Thanksgiving before!” he basically yelled, causing several students to turn and see who was screaming about Thanksgiving. Marco barely noticed however; he was too busy staring at Jean, his mouth open and his eyes wide.

“Uh, yeah… It’s not really… a thing in France,” Jaen said, not entirely sure why Marco was making such a big deal out of it. “It’s something only North Americans do.”

“I know, I know,” Marco said, waving his free hand and then reaching it towards Jean, grasping his upper arm. “But you can’t live in the States and not celebrate Thanksgiving once. That’s pretty much blasphemy!”

“…But Thanksgiving’s not a religious holiday.”

Marco paused for a moment, before continuing. “You still need to celebrate it,” he said. “Do you have any plans for Thanksgiving?”

Jean shook his head. “Nope. I think we were supposed to celebrate with one of my parents’ American friends, but they had to cancel.”

“Great!” Marco grinned widely at him. “My mom told me to ask you if you and your parents could come to our house for Thanksgiving. Do you know if they’d made any other plans?”

“I don’t think they have,” Jean said. “I’ll text my mom and ask.” He pulled out his phone and, keeping it out of Hange’s sight, sent a quick message to his mother, telling her about Marco’s invitation. Within two minutes, she replied.

**De: Maman**

**Ça sonne bien! Je vais dire à Papa.**

_Sounds good! I’ll tell Dad._

“Yep, we’re going to your house for Thanksgiving,” Jean said, and Marco clapped his hands excitedly. A few seconds later, Jean’s mother sent him another text.

**De: Maman**

**À quelle heure?**

_What time?_

“My mom wants to know at what time.”

“I think… four?” Marco replied, shrugging. “I’m not entirely sure, though. I’ll have to ask—”

He was cut off by a sudden loud coughing from the front of the room, and they both turned to see Hange, leaning against their desk with one eyebrow raised. “It doesn’t sound like you’re talking about science,” they drawled, tapping their fingers along the wood of the desk. “And you know my rule: no conversations during class unless you have them very quietly so I don’t hear—though I wouldn’t recommend that—or they’re about science. But from what I heard, and I heard a lot, you’re not talking about anything even remotely related to science. So please, be quiet and do your work.”

Marco nodded quickly, focusing his eyes at the paper in front of him. “Yes, Hange,” he mumbled, casting a side-eye glance at Jean, who was now trying to interpret one of the questions.

When class finally ended, almost half an hour later, Jean was quick to turn to Marco as they walked from the room, scowling slightly in confusion.

“I was thinking,” he started, though Marco cut in before he could get any further.

“Never a good idea.”

Jean narrowed his eyes at him, before starting over. “I was thinking, and I don’t really get it. You told me, that it wouldn’t be a good idea for someone to come out as… not straight here, because they’re not really accepting.” Marco nodded, shifting his binder around his arms. “But Hange… doesn’t really have a gender. They don’t go by miss or missus or mister, and they, well, they use they. That can’t be something that people are very accepting of.”

Marco sighed. “There was actually a huge uproar about it a few years ago, when Hange first came to teach at the school,” he explained. “Like, seriously. Huge. I’m pretty sure there was a Facebook page about it and everything. Tons of parents and students wanted to get Hange fired, and there were petitions for it and people didn’t let them get a minute of peace for months. It was pretty bad. I’m surprised they didn’t pack up and leave. But they stuck through, and Principal Smith refused to fire them. It calmed down eventually, but there are still people who are angry about it, and some even pulled their kids from the school.” He pursed his lips, kicking at the ground. “In a town like this, you definitely want to try and fit in as best as you can. It normally doesn’t… end pretty otherwise.”

“But what about Ymir?” Jean asked. “She was very open about making out with Christa at Eren’s party last week. Either that or I was more drunk than I thought.”

“Ymir’s not stupid. She knows that she can’t really go around talking about how much she likes girls here. She was pretty drunk that night, so she probably uses that as an excuse.” Marco shrugged, before sighing again. “All I really know for sure is that I’m getting out of this place as soon as I can.”

There was a pause; they walked in silence, headed for Marco’s locker like they always did after science class. Neither of them said anything until they reached it, Marco pulling the door open and carefully putting his stuff away.

“You could come live in France,” Jean said, grinning slightly at him. “It’s really nice there, and you could learn French easily.”

Marco chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, I wish,” he mumbled, grabbing the things he needed for his next class and closing his locker door with a click. “I would love to live in France one day. But right now it doesn’t seem like I’d be able to do that.” He shrugged. “But who knows. It’s a while off. For now, though, I have to get to my sociology class. See you later!”

“Bye,” Jean waved to Marco as he walked down the hall and disappeared around a corner, before turning and heading in the direction of his own locker.

 

* * *

 

Jean’s parents had met Marco’s mother about three times before. Their meetings had been brief, so they didn’t know each other too well, but Jean’s mother constantly talked about how nice she seemed.

“ _Mais qu’en est-il de son père?_ ” she asked as they stood in the entryway on the afternoon of Thanksgiving, putting on their shoes and coats. “ _Où est-il? J’ai le jamais vu._ ” But what about his father? Where is he? I’ve never seen him.

Jean shrugged. “ _Je sais pas,_ ” he said. “ _Marco parle jamais de lui._ ” I don’t know. Marco never talks about him.

“ _Je suppose que c’est pas notre affaire,_ ” his mother said, sighing. I guess it’s not our business. “But now, let’s go! Come on!”

They filed out the door and into the car; Jean’s mother talked the entire way to the Bodts’ house about how excited she was, and wondered if it would be like the Thanksgivings you always see in American movies.

“ _J’ai entendu que les américains à une tarte au chocolat,_ ” she said, turning in her seat to face Jean. “ _Et une casserole avec les patates douces_ et _les guimauves._ ” I heard that Americans have a chocolate pie. And a casserole with sweet potatoes _and_ marshmallows.

Jean raised an eyebrow at her. “Maman, did you research American Thanksgiving food?” he asked, and she scoffed, turning away from him.

“I looked at a few websites,” she admitted, though she sounded insulted. “Is it so bad that I want to know what food they have at Thanksgiving?”

“It’s a little weird,” Jean told her, and she let out an indignant “bah”, throwing her hands in the air. Jean continued, “They have turkey, potatoes, carrots… things like that. It’s not that difficult.”

“Ah! But did you know about the chocolate pie?” his mother demanded, wheeling around towards him again. “Or the sweet potato and marshmallow casserole? I don’t think you did, because it’s _weird_. So shush!”

Jean just shook his head and rolled his eyes, and his mother faced the front once again with a satisfied “hmph”. Less than a minute later, they pulled into Marco’s driveway. Jean’s mother was the first to get out, telling her son to grab the _flaugnarde_ she’d baked as she scurried across the gravel to the front door. Jean was still struggling out of the car, trying not to drop the dish in his hands, when the door opened, and both his mother and Marco’s let out a loud greeting, like they had been best friends for ages.

“Manon!” Marco’s mother cried, almost at the exact moment that Jean’s mother yelled, “Annabel!”

The two started talking excitedly, and a few seconds later Bea came tearing out the door, followed quickly by Marco, trying to get her to slow down.

“Jeanny!” the little girl cried, cutting a clear path across the lawn and onto the driveway where Jean stood. She missed barreling into him by a few centimetres, and would have if he hadn’t stepped out of the way, lifting the _flaugnarde_ high above his head.

“Careful, careful!” he cried, wincing as she skidded to a stop and nearly toppled over.

“Bea, you need to stop greeting people by trying to run head-first into them,” Marco scolded. “It never ends well for _anyone_.”

Bea just scowled at him, before running up alongside Jean. “What’s that, Jeanny?” she asked, pointing to the dish in his hands. Jean resisted telling her not to call him Jeanny, which sounded more like Johnny than any variant of his name, but he’d tried that several times before, and it never worked.

“It’s a _flaugnarde_ ,” he explained.

“Flogerd?” Bea furrowed her eyebrows at him. “What’s a flogerd?”

“ _Flaugnarde,_ ” Jean corrected. “It’s a dessert made with fruit and flan.”

Bea nodded like she understood, skipping beside him as he walked to the front door with Marco, though a few seconds later she asked, “What’s flan?”

“It’s a pastry,” Jean told her. “ _Flaugnarde_ isn’t made with actual flan, but it’s made with something like it.”

“Oh, okay,” Bea said. “What kind of fruit’s in it?”

“Apples.”

“I love apples!” Bea cried, twirling around and spinning her arms around. “Apples, apples, apples, apples!”

Marco sighed, running his hands over his face. “Beatrix, calm down.”

She ignored him, and instead ran ahead, ducking into the house.

 

* * *

 

Jean’s mother spent most of the afternoon buzzing around the kitchen with Annabel, watching her cook and prepare the food, and helping where she could. Jean and Marco escaped up to Marco’s room, mostly to get away from Bea, who had spent at least an hour talking their ears off.

“How do you live with her?” Jean asked, heaving a sigh as he collapsed onto Marco’s bed. “Every time I come over she always has more energy than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Marco shrugged. “You get used to it,” he said. “And you learn how to deal with it.”

“I’m just glad my sister was older than me,” Jean said. “Though I suppose in some ways it would have made life easier if she was younger…”

“How?”

“We never really got along,” Jean explained. “She’s six years older than I am, and has spent most of her life tormenting me.”

Marco frowned, plopping himself down beside Jean. “Why?”

“At first it was probably because she didn’t want a brother,” Jean said, hoisting himself up into a sitting position. “Then it just… got worse…”

Marco didn’t say anything, or ask Jean to elaborate more. A few minutes of silence passed, before Jean spoke again.

“A big part of it was that she always assumed I was gay,” he explained, though no one asked him—he just felt the need to. “I’ve never told her, mostly because she made it into this huge thing I should be ashamed of.” He shrugged. “I have kind of stopped caring about that part of our relationship… I still hate it, but I’m used to it. I don’t think anything will make her change.”

“You shouldn’t be so negative about everything,” Marco told him, giving him an encouraging smile. “People _can_ change.”

Jean let out a loud sigh. “You don’t know my sister,” he said, then rolled off the bed and onto his feet. “But it doesn’t bother me anymore.” Walking over to Marco’s telescope, which was sitting in front of his window, Jean started fiddling with the different knobs and dials on it, scowling slightly. “How do you use this?” he asked, turning to the freckled boy for help.

Marco could tell he’d said all he wanted to and was trying to switch subjects, but he didn’t argue; he wouldn’t force Jean to talk about something he didn’t want to. Going over to where the telescope was, he reached over Jean to turn the settings back to where they had been. “Scoot over,” he instructed, gently pushing the other boy to the side and opening his window, plucking the screen out and setting it aside. A chilly breeze of late fall wind blew in, and they both shivered. Leaning over, Marco pressed his eye to the finderscope and twisted the telescope around, adjusting the knobs until he seemed satisfied.

“There,” he said, stepping aside. “I have it focused on some trees. Later on when it’s dark I can show you the moon and stars and stuff.”

Jean smiled at him, before bending down and looking through the telescope’s eyepiece. Like Marco had said, it was pointed at a pair of trees, though he couldn’t tell exactly where they were. But it was all incredibly detailed; he could pick out individual leaves and branches, and could even see a crystal-clear image of a squirrel scurrying up the trunk. “Whoa…” he murmured, amazed. “That’s so cool.”

“I think looking at the night sky is the best,” Marco said. “Especially when you find some of the other planets.”

Jean pulled back from the telescope, gaping. “You _need_ to show me that,” he said, and Marco laughed, nodding.

“I will, I will,” he assured him. Right then, his mother called up the stairs at them, telling them that supper was ready. Marco turned to Jean, grinning. “Come on!” he cried, grabbing the French boy’s hand and dragging him out of his room, up the hall, and down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

The food was absolutely delicious. Jean had, of course, had most of it before, except for the cornbread and the sweet potato casserole, which his mother was incredibly excited about—it was one of the first things she put on her plate as the different dishes were passed around the table. Before she could try her much-anticipated casserole, however, Annabel cleared her throat loudly and reached out, grabbing the hands of the people beside her. Marco and Bea copied her, both grabbing one of Jean’s hands; his parents did the same, until they were all sitting around the table, linked by their hands.

“Manon,” Annabel said, turning to Jean’s mother. “Would you like to lead us in saying grace?”

Manon blinked, obviously confused. “Euh… Grace?” she said, shrugging her shoulders and frowning apologetically.

Jean’s father let out a loud laugh. “ _Non_ , Manon, _bénédicité_ ,” he explained, and realization spread across his wife’s face.

“Oh!” she cried, blushing slightly. “I, um… Can I do it French? I don’t know any in English.”

Annabel smiled, nodding. “We can do one in French and one in English,” she suggested. “I can do the English one.”

“Okay.” Manon took in a deep breath, and everyone bowed their heads, closing their eyes. Carefully, Jean’s mother started her prayer, “ _Bénissez-nous, Seigneur; bénissez ce repas, bénissez la belle femme qui l’a préparé, bénissez ses enfants, et procurez du pain à ceux qui n’en ont pas. Amen._ ” Bless us, O Lord; bless this meal, bless the beautiful woman who prepared it, bless her children, and obtain bread for those who do not have any. Amen.

Jean had never heard his mother pray before; they weren’t a particularly religious family, though he was baptised, and his maternal grandparents were regular church-goers. He assumed that’s how she knew what to say—he sure as hell wouldn’t have.

A quiet murmur of repeated “amens” passed around the table when she finished, and immediately after Annabel started her own grace. “Bless us, O Lord, and bless this meal, which we are about to receive on this Thanksgiving day. Bless our lovely guests, bless their household, and help those who do not have enough to eat today. Thank you, Lord. Amen.” Like before, everyone repeated the amen at the end, and unlinked their hands, lifting their heads and opening their eyes.

“Now, everyone, dig in!” Annabel announced, smiling warmly at them all. “And while we eat, I’d like to go around the table and have everyone say what they’re thankful for.”

Jean’s mother had obviously been waiting for this part, as she straightened up and rubbed her hands together. As they went around, most of them said very generic things: they were thankful for their family, their friends, their job. Manon, however, practically gave a speech, going on and on about her children and her husband and her house and her life—Jean began to suspect she was trying to make up for the past forty-five Thanksgivings she’d never celebrated.

When she’d finally finished, followed by a brief and shocked silence, it was Bea’s turn. Unsurprisingly, the little girl was most thankful for her frogs, and even teared up a bit as she explained that she was thankful that they were happy in heaven now, and weren’t suffering anymore like they had when they’d died from the cold.

It was Jean’s turn after that and, not knowing how he could top forty-five years worth of thanks or dead frogs, he just said that he was thankful for his friends and family, and let it go on to the next person.

It finished soon after that, and everyone went off into different conversations; Manon asked Bea about her frogs, Jean’s father and Annabel started discussing pies, and Jean and Marco started complaining about their schoolwork. Eventually they all joined together in one conversation, telling funny stories and recounting events of past holidays, until all the food was gone and dessert was brought out.

 

* * *

 

After dessert had been devoured—one apple pie, one pumpkin pie, one chocolate cream pie, and Jean’s mother’s _flaugnarde_ —Jean and Marco disappeared upstairs again, this time to look at the stars, which were now out and shining brightly.

Jean watched as Marco adjusted the telescope, this time focusing on the moon, a crescent hanging heavy in the sky. After he had everything set the way he wanted, he stepped back, letting Jean look through.

“Oh my God…” Jean breathed as he pressed his eye to the main scope. He could see the moon almost perfectly, though there wasn’t much of it to see. Still, the craters and ravines scarring the surface were plainly clear to him, and he realized for the first time just how imperfect the moon was—he had no idea it had so many bumps and pits. “That’s amazing…”

Beside him, Marco grinned. “When I first got into astronomy, with my dad,” he explained, “the moon would always be the first thing we looked at, every night. I’ve probably spent hours staring at it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It really is.”

They stood in silence after that, each staring at the moon—Jean through the telescope, and Marco through the window. A few minutes passed before either of them spoke again.

“Jean, what’s the French word for moon?” Marco asked.

“ _Lune,_ ” Jean said, pulling back from the telescope to look at him. “It’s feminine, so _la lune._ ”

“And the stars are…” he trailed off, frowning. “I forget what star is.”

Jean smiled at him. “ _Les étoiles._ ” Remembering what he had said on Halloween night, he added, “ _T’es beau comme les étoiles._ ”

You’re beautiful like the stars.

“What’s that mean?”

Jean paused, a blush spreading across his face. “Euh… it means ‘the stars are very beautiful’.”

Marco hummed happily in agreement. “They really are,” he said, leaning forward and resting his arms on his windowsill. “It’s just amazing to think that they’re all giant suns, millions of light years away… There could be planets orbiting around any one of those stars, and any of those planets could support life. There could be aliens looking at our sun right now and wondering if it has any planets that have life on them. How crazy is that?”

“I guess it’s crazy,” Jean said, shrugging. “It’s not really something I have thought about… But it is interesting.”

“It’s always fascinated me,” Marco said quietly, still gazing up at the sky. “Our sun could be part of the constellations of other civilizations. If they have something like constellations, though.”

“What constellations are there tonight?” Jean asked, and Marco immediately perked.

“Right now,” he said. “I can see Hercules, Draco, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and… I’m pretty sure that’s Corona Borealis.” Backing away from the window, Marco turned to Jean, reaching out his hand. “Let’s go outside! We can see the stars better from there.”

Jean nodded, and, taking his hand, let Marco drag him downstairs to the entryway, where they threw on their coats and boots.

“We’re going to the backyard, Mom!” Marco called, before pulling open the door and stepping onto the front porch. He lead Jean around the side of the house to the back, their feet sliding on the half-melted snow covering the ground as they walked; both of them nearly slipped twice. Marco pulled him all the way to the back of the yard, where the Bodts’ property ended and a tangled mess of snow-covered and overgrown weeds, prairie grass, and bushes started. Though the light pollution from the rest of the town still hindered their view of the stars, they were much easier to see away from the glow of Marco’s brightly-lit house.

Marco craned his neck back, his eyes darting from one group of stars to the next. “Here,” he said after a while, grabbing Jean’s hand again. Lifting it up, he used it to help point him in the direction of the constellations, drawing invisible lines between the stars as he talked. “You know the Big Dipper, there.” He drew the outline of a pot with a crooked handle. “It’s also called Ursa Major. And up there’s the Little Dipper—Ursa Minor.” He moved Jean’s hand up a bit, and pointed out a smaller pot-shaped cluster. “This one’s Draco.” He traced a small head and added a long tail that curved around the Little Dipper. “There’s Hercules.” A man, a sword in hand, took shape in the sky, looking like he was ready to charge into battle. “And that’s Corona Borealis.” A small, angular arc. “Its name means northern crown, so I’m guessing it’s supposed to be a kind of crown. Oh, and this one’s called Boötes.” He outlined a strange constellation beside Corona Borealis—something made up of two triangles and a polygon, with two lines sticking out of it. “A lot of people interpret this one differently. The stars can be connected in a bunch of different ways, to make different images. I like the one where it’s a man who circles the north pole herding bears.”

Jean glanced over at Marco, and was surprised to find just how close he was—their faces were only inches apart. Jean wished he could kiss him, and even found himself leaning forward. He was so close to pressing his lips to the side of Marco’s freckled face, when something pulled him back; some invisible string, keeping him from getting any closer. Without really telling his body to, he jerked back, quickly pulling his hand out of Marco’s grip and sticking it in his pocket. Even though it was dark and Marco wouldn’t be able to see the blush spreading across his face or the embarrassment on his face, Jean still ducked his head down when the American boy looked his way.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and Jean nodded.

“Y-Yes, I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just… cold.”

“Yeah, it is chilly,” Marco agreed. “I guess that’s enough star-gazing for now; I’m probably boring you half to death. Let’s go back inside!”

Jean didn’t say anything as they walked back to Marco’s house, this time going in through the back door, though the entire time he just wished that they could have stayed out there, looking at the constellations, forever.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Jean came home from school to find his mother talking with someone on the phone. He wasn’t sure who it was at first, but she was speaking in French so it had to be someone that they knew from France; he still couldn’t figure out who it was, until his mother referred to them as her“ _poupée_ ”, a name she only ever used for his sister.

It was December 4th already—Christmas was in just a few weeks. It had been nearly impossible for Aimée to ever get enough time off to travel to whatever part of France they were living in at the time, and Jean figured that once they moved to the States she wouldn’t even bother. But judging from what he was hearing of his mother’s side of the conversation, it seemed like she was trying extra hard to visit them this year.

“ _Non!_ ” He didn’t even try to hide the panic in his voice as he all but threw his backpack and hurried over to where his mother sat in the living room. “ _Non,_ Maman, _s’il te plait me dire qu’elle vient pas!_ ” No, Mom, please tell me she’s not coming.

“Jean!” his mother scolded, glaring at him. “ _C’est ta sœur! Soyez gentil!_ ” It’s your sister! Be nice!

“Maman!” Jean groaned, throwing himself onto the couch beside her. “You know—you _know_ how she treats me! Don’t do this to me, Maman, don’t!”

His mother sighed, pulling the phone away from her face and covering it with her hand. Her expression softened almost immediately, and a flood of relief swelled in Jean as he realized she was only putting on an act for his sister, who had always insisted they preferred Jean over her and didn’t exactly stay calm when her parents took Jean’s sides on matters.

“Please tell me she’s not actually coming,” he begged, his voice quiet as he leaned forward and rested his chin on his mother’s shoulder, just in case his sister could actually hear them through the phone.

His mother gave him an apologetic smile. “Nothing’s for certain yet,” she said. “But she’s hoping to get the right amount of time off so she can come for Christmas. _Je suis désolée, mon chèr._ But it will only be for a few weeks, if it does happen, and you won’t see her again after that until we go back to France.” She wrapped her arm around him, pulling him close. “Don’t worry. I won’t let her do anything awful to you.” Kissing the top of his head, she then shooed him away so she could go back to talking to his sister.

Jean trudged upstairs, falling face-first onto his bed. Heaving a loud sigh, he pulled out one of his pillows and threw it over his head, pulling it around his ears until all the noise around him was muffled and practically inaudible.

 

* * *

 

About a week later, Jean and Marco stood outside the school, leaning against the walls by the door to try and get away from the cold. It had snowed again two days ago, the temperature dipping below zero and refusing to get any higher. It seemed that winter had finally arrived, and wouldn’t be leaving for the next few months.

“God, it’s cold,” Jean muttered, his teeth clacking as he shivered. “Are we going to your house? Because if we are, let’s take your bus. I do _not_ want to walk in this.”

Marco scowled at the ground, toeing at the plush layer of white covering it. “Why don’t we go to your house?” he suggested. “We always go to my house.”

Jean raised an eyebrow at him. “You never cared before,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Jean,” Marco insisted, shoving his frozen hands into his coat pockets. “Let’s just go to your house, if you don’t mind. Please?”

Jean was prepared to argue more, or at least get a reason out of Marco, but the tone of his voice made him pause. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “It’s fine. My mom won’t care.”

Marco nodded, giving Jean one quick glance before focusing all his attention to the ground; neither of them said anything as they waited for the buses to arrive.

 

* * *

 

Jean’s mother was surprised, but happy, to see Marco walk through the doors with Jean.

“Marco!” she cried, swooping down giving him a quick hug and two kisses on his cheeks before he could even get his jacket off. “I haven’t seen you here in a while! How are you, _mon gar_?”

Marco shrugged. “I’m fine, I guess,” he said. “How are you, Mrs. Kirschtein?”

“I’m lovely, thank you for asking,” she said, giving him a pat on the shoulder before disappearing down a hallway.

Once their coats and shoes were off, the two boys made their way upstairs to Jean’s room. Marco collapsed onto his bed as soon as they were through the doors, throwing his backpack off to the side.

Leaning against one of the bedposts, Jean asked, “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Because something’s wrong. I can tell.”

Marco seemed to consider what he should say for a few seconds, before rolling over onto his back and facing Jean. “It’s my mom,” he explained. “There’s just… been some things going on. She’s been driving me crazy because of it.”

“What things?” Jean questioned, sitting down beside the freckled boy.

Marco squeezed his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. “It… it doesn’t matter now,” he said. “I’ll tell you eventually. Okay?”

Jean, while he wasn’t happy with Marco’s response, didn’t protest, and just nodded. Marco sighed, relieved, and pulled himself up into a sitting position. “So,” he asked, glancing around the room, looking for his discarded backpack. “What do you have for homework?”

 

* * *

 

Marco went over to Jean’s house after school almost every single day for the following two weeks. Jean began to worry more and more; whenever he tried to bring up what was bugging Marco, he would avoid the conversation, insist that he was fine, and bring up a new topic. Still, he always seemed happier at Jean’s house—like everything that was stressing him out just ceased to exist.

One day, after they had both finished their homework and were planning on watching a movie, Jean returned to his room from the kitchen to find Marco sitting, cross-legged, on the floor, a long, irregular-shaped case in his lap. He looked up when Jean walked in, astonishment and excitement plain on his face.

“No,” he said, a wide grin pulling at the corners of his lips. “You don’t. _Oh my god._ ”

Jean flushed a bright red, noticing that Marco’s finger had made lines in the dust on the case where he’d tried to brush it off. “How did you find that?” he demanded.

“It was under your bed,” Marco said. “Not very well hidden, if you didn’t want it found. But seriously. How have I never heard about this before?”

“Because I never told you,” Jean muttered, trying to grab the case from Marco’s hands.

“No, wait! Please!” Marco ducked out of the way of Jean’s hands, clicking the case opening and gasping. “ _Jean. You have to._ ” Turning around, he carefully lifted the instrument from the case, holding it up for them both to see.

“A violin,” he breathed, his eyes gliding over it. “ _You play the violin._ ”

Jean glared at him. “Why are you making such a big deal of it?” he asked, snatching it from Marco’s hands rather violently, though he held it carefully and even checked to make sure it was alright.

“Because I had no idea!” Marco cried. “You’ve never shown even the slightest interest in music! But here you are, with your own violin, that you can apparently play!”

“My parents made me take lessons,” Jean explained. “Okay? It wasn’t from my own choice.”

“Play something.”

Jean sighed. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t played in a long time,” Jean admitted, reaching out his hand. “Give me the bow. I’m going to have to tune it first.”

Marco smiled widely, clapping his hands and bouncing up and down a bit before grabbing the bow from the case and passing it to the French boy. He watched carefully as Jean slowly dragged it over the violin’s strings, adjusting them accordingly until he seemed pleased enough with the sound.

“Okay,” he said, finally ready. “This is the only one I really remember completely. It’s called Petit Air Varié by Charles Dancla.” He took in a deep breath, muttering to himself as he counted out the beat—one, two, three, four… He positioned his fingers appropriately, and pushed the bow along the strings. Marco’s eyes followed his hands as they moved along the neck of the instrument and played different notes, forcing out a decent, if not rusty, rendition of the song. Occasionally he would have to pause and think out the next little part but, all-in-all, it was rather good for someone who hadn’t touched an instrument in months.

When he finished, Marco clapped and cheered loudly. “That was _amazing_ ,” he praised. “I can’t believe I didn’t know you played the violin before! Do you hate it or something?”

Jean shrugged. “It’s hard to be extremely passionate about something you were forced to do,” he said. “But I don’t _hate_ it. It’s just not my favourite thing.”

“You should get into it more,” Marco told him. “I remember, on…. I think it was the first day of school, you told me you didn’t have anything you were really passionate about. Why don’t you make this it?”

Jean paused, considering what Marco had said. Before he could answer, however, his mother came bursting through his bedroom door.

“Did I actually hear you playing your violin?” she asked, grinning at him proudly. “I haven’t heard you play it in _months_!”

“Marco forced me,” Jean accused, pointing to the freckled boy, almost as if he was in trouble.

“Good for you, Marco!” Jean’s mother cried, giving him a thumbs-up. “Keep at it!”

With that, she disappeared, closing the door behind her.

“Do what your mom told you,” Marco said, after she had gone. “Keep playing the violin. And if you don’t, then you’ll give me something new to do. Because I’m going to find something for you to be passionate about. I promise.”

Jean scowled, but didn’t say anything. He just put the violin away, and the two of them started watching a movie, like they had originally planned. But after Marco went home, he went into his closet and dug out all his old violin books, and stood around practicing for hours, until his parents had to tell him to be quiet and get some sleep.

 

* * *

 

Jean only had two days left of school when his sister arrived.

His mother had broken the news to him the previous week, when the plans for his sister’s visit had been solidified. Both his parents reassured him multiple times that they wouldn’t let her do anything terrible to him like she usually did, and reminded him that it was only for two weeks—it would all be fine.

She was sitting on the coach in the living room, talking and drinking coffee with their parents, when he and Marco arrived at his house that afternoon. She grinned widely at him when he walked in, standing up and hurrying over to him. “Jean!” she cried, throwing her arms over his shoulders. “ _Tu m’as manqué!_ ” I missed you!

Jean flinched back from her slightly, stepping away once she released her hold on him. “ _Salut,_ Aimée.”

Marco blinked, glancing between the two. “Is this your sister?” he asked, and Jean nodded.

Aimée glanced at the American boy, before looking back at her brother. “ _Est-il ton petit ami?_ ” she asked. Is he your boyfriend?

Jean’s mother was on her feet in an instant. “Aimée, stop,” she scolded, grabbing her daughter by the arm and leading her back to the living room. “Leave them be.”

“What?” Aimée asked, pouting slightly. “It was an honest question.”

Manon raised an eyebrow at her, shaking her head. Jean, seeing as his sister was distracted, took the opportunity to escape with Marco up the stairs and into his bedroom.

“What did she ask you?” Marco asked, once they were in Jean’s room with the door closed.

“She asked if you were my boyfriend,” Jean mumbled. Sitting down on his bed, he rested his head in his hands, heaving a loud sigh.

Marco’s face flushed a bright red as he gingerly sat down on the mattress beside him. “Um… Okay,” he said. “Are… you alright?”

Jean looked up at him and shrugged. “I’ll be fine,” he assured him. “I lived with her for the first fourteen years of my life. I can live through two weeks.”

“I’d let you stay with me for a few days, but my home life isn’t exactly amazing either,” Marco said, frowning.

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s wrong?” Jean asked. “It’s been weeks.”

Marco chewed his bottom lip, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “I’m not ready,” he admitted. “I hope you can respect that. I will tell you eventually, though. I promise.”

Jean nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I will respect that.”

“Thanks,” Marco whispered, glancing down at him feet and smiling.

 

* * *

 

Jean found out a lot sooner than he expected he would.

Two days after Christmas, Marco showed up at his door. Aimée was the one to answer his rather incessant ringing, and didn’t even ask any questions before calling for Jean, telling him that his _petit ami_ was there. Jean was rather surprised to see him, seeing as he’d said he would be really busy during the days before and after Christmas. But Marco didn’t explain anything when he showed up; he just told him to put on his coat and boots, and lead him out the door and into his car.

The drive was quiet. Marco didn’t talk, and Jean didn’t ask. They drove in absolute silence, the sound of tires over snow and Marco’s slightly shaky breathing the only noise. Jean didn’t know where they were going, but Marco apparently did; he drove with purpose, carrying them out of town and towards Kansas City.

They never made it there, however. About ten minutes after leaving town Marco pulled over on the side of the road, next to a snow-covered and empty field. He didn’t let go off the steering wheel, his knuckles white as he clenched the plastic. Finally, Jean spoke.

“Marco,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning towards the boy. “What’s wrong? Please tell me.”

Marco took in a deep breath. “You’ve never met my dad, have you?” he asked, his voice quiet.

The question threw Jean off a bit; that wasn’t what he had been expecting at all. “Um, no, I haven’t.”

Marco nodded, and Jean realized there were tears in his eyes. “He died when I was nine,” he explained, and it was so sudden—there had been no build-up to it, no hints. Just a statement, said by a teary-eyed and freckled boy in the middle of December on a snowy Kansas road.

Jean was too shocked to say anything.

“It was a car accident,” Marco continued, wiping the back of his hands across his eyes. “A drunk driver came out of nowhere when he was driving one night and that was it. Instantaneous.” He shook his head. “It happened two days after Christmas. Five years ago today.” He sniffed loudly, his lip shaking as he spoke. “My mom hates Christmas now. She always gets so unhappy when December comes around, even though it’s been five years. She loved him so much…” He was choking on his words, the tears falling freely down his cheeks and into his lap.

Jean realized, then, that he should have known—he should have noticed. The man in all those pictures he’d seen in Marco’s house had been his father, and every picture of him was old and outdated. Five years old, at least, he now knew. At first he’d just assumed Marco’s father was always busy, and then he’d guessed that his parents had gotten a divorce. But no one ever talked about him, like they would have if it had been a divorce.

“I’m…. sorry,” he mumbled, unsure of what else to say.

Marco smiled weakly at him through the tears still pouring down his face. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s fine… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. It’s just… not an easy thing to talk about.”

“You were close to your dad, weren’t you?”

Marco nodded. “He was always there for me, and then one day… he just wasn’t. Gone, in the blink of an eye.” He wiped at his eyes, though the tears kept coming. “I miss him all the time. For months after he died I couldn’t even look at the stars without crying, because I always thought of him. Now I’m always scared that I’m not going to make him proud—that if he were still alive he’d be so, so disappointed in me.”

“How could he be disappointed in you?” Jean asked, leaning across the divider between their seats and placing a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “I’m sure he would be very proud that you are his son.”

Marco sighed, resting his head on Jean’s shoulder. “I don’t know about that…” he admitted. “But thank you. A lot.” They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the quiet hum of the engine and the rush of cars driving by. Eventually, Marco lifted his head, smiling warmly at Jean.

 Jean blushed, glancing at the floor of the car. He ignored Marco as he leaned towards him, avoiding looking at him until the freckled boy grabbed his cheek and turned his face towards him.

Jean sucked in a quick breath, biting anxiously at the inside of his cheek.

Marco kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossaire:
> 
>  _poupée:_ doll
> 
>  _Je suis désolé, mon chèr:_ I'm sorry, my dear.
> 
>  _mon gar:_ my boy
> 
>  _Salut:_ Hello
> 
>  
> 
> __


	5. Blessure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Styrofoam coffee cups, New Year's Eve, and slushy city streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to get done. My dad died very suddenly in a vehicle accident only a few days after the last update, so it was a pretty long time before I felt up to writing again. Then I had to deal with final projects and exams, and even after those were done I was super super busy with people and friends I haven't seen in like three years coming for visits for almost a week straight. I just didn't have much time to write.
> 
> I wish I could say that the next update will be much quicker, but I have no idea if that's true. I'm leaving tomorrow for about three weeks, and I'm not going to have my laptop with me, so it'll be pretty hard for me to do much writing. Then when I get home I'll be busy with getting ready to move. The next two or three months are just a big mess for me. So I'm really sorry if there's another long wait before the next chapter, but I hope you still through it with me.
> 
> Chapter Title: Injury
> 
> Lyrics: Whatever the injury
> 
> It doesn't show too much
> 
> It's necessarily the wear and tear
> 
> I do what is needed
> 
> To keep looking good
> 
> On the days where the weather's nice
> 
> Whatever the injury
> 
> It doesn't show too much

_Quelque soit la blessure_

_Elle ne se voit pas trop_

_C’est forcément l’usure_

_Moi, je fais ce qu’il faut_

_Pour garder fière allure_

_Les jours où il fait beau_

_Quelque soit la blessure_

_Elle ne se voit pas trop_

_-La blessure,_ Emmanuel Moire

 

* * *

 

 For a second, everything stopped.

The world seemed to slow down—the car driving past them halted to a crawl, and the flashing light of the dashboard clock stopped blinking. All the sound around them was overpowered by the deafening roar blaring in Jean’s ears and his heart pounding erratically in his chest. All he could feel was the press of Marco’s lips against his, and all he could see was his freckled face, still wet with tears.

Then he blinked, and the spell broke; the car whizzed by, spraying slush and chunks of gravel as it went; the clock ticked forward. Jean sat frozen, his eyes wide. He stayed like that for several seconds, not knowing what to do, until Marco slowly pulled away from him. They stared at each other for what felt like minutes—Jean’s expression surprised and confused, and Marco’s embarrassed and ashamed.

“Uh…” the freckled boy mumbled, clearing his throat awkwardly and turning from Jean. “I’m, um… I’m sorry. That was… wow, okay... yeah, that was weird.”

There was a pause. Marco leaned back in his seat, burying his face in his hands and groaning unhappily; Jean heard him muttering something to himself, but he couldn’t understand what it was. Leaning forward, he gently pulled Marco’s hands away, holding them in his own. The American boy refused to meet his gaze, his eyes darting around the car instead as he sniffed and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“I didn’t mind,” Jean said softly. Marco flicked his eyes towards him for a brief second, before looking down at his hands, still gathered up in Jean’s, who continued, “I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

Marco’s face, already bright red, seemed to flare up even more, and he winced slightly, trying to pull his hands free; Jean let him. Marco wiped angrily at his face and rubbed his eyes, until his fingers were wet with tears. “I’m so stupid…” he muttered, and Jean shook his head.

“I don’t think you are stupid,” he said, and pressed a soft kiss to the side of Marco’s face.

Marco sat, unmoving, for a moment, staring at the floor of the car, while Jean watched him expectantly, his head titled to the side. “Are you okay?” the French boy asked, and Marco nodded, finally looking up at him.

“Yeah.” He nodded again, a small smile spreading across his lips. “Yeah, I’m fine.” There was a brief pause, before he continued. “What does this mean?”

Jean raised an eyebrow at him. “What does what mean?”

“This.” Marco motioned at the space around them. “Us. I don’t know... Just, what does it mean?”

“I don’t understand,” Jean said, scrunching his face up in confusion. “What are you asking?”

Marco groaned, and Jean threw his hands up, his expression confused and rather annoyed.

“I have no idea what you are saying, Marco!” he insisted. “Honestly! It sounds like you are telling me nonsense!”

Marco stared at him for a few seconds, before he burst out laughing, leaning to the side and resting his forehead on Jean’s shoulder. “Oh my God…” he breathed. “I’m not even sure what I’m asking now... I just wanna know if you like me... like I like you.

Jean paused, considering the question. “That depends,” he answered, a few seconds later. “How do you like me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“What, the kiss?” Jean asked, a small grin pulling at the corners of his lips, and Marco nodded. “Well, I wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Because, you know, I have been told that I’m very attractive, so it could have been a very, hm… _spontané_ moment. Do you know what I am saying? You may not have been thinking at all when you kissed me.”

Marco stared at him, his mouth opening and closing, searching for words. Jean’s grin grew wider, and he burst into laughter, resting a hand on Marco’s shoulder and leaning towards him.

“I’m kidding,” he said, as Marco’s face briefly relaxed, before quickly being replaced by a look of annoyance.

“You’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever met,” the freckled boy said, crossing his arms with a huff. “Really, you are such an asshole. Do you know how to be serious about something? Is that physically impossible for you or something?”

Jean scowled slightly, leaning back. Heaving a sigh, he asked, “You know how I always am talking in French with you?”

Marco raised an eyebrow at him. “I… what does that have to do with anything?” he questioned. “Stop changing the subject, I’m mad at you now. Can you just… please answer the question.”

“I’m getting to that,” Jean assured him, before continuing, “But you do know how I talk in French a lot. And then most of the time you ask for a translation, and I give it, yeah?”

Marco blinked at him several times, then nodded.

“Well, none of those translations were right,” Jean admitted, quickly adding, “Okay, some of them might have been right, I think. But most of them weren’t.”

“What are you saying?” Marco asked, looking at him warily.

“I’m saying that I’ve been flirting with you, in French, since… oh, I think since the first day I met you.”

Marco didn’t say anything for a  few seconds. “…What?”

Jean sighed, scratching absently at his cheek. “On Thanksgiving I said something like, euh… ‘ _T’es plus beau que les étoiles_ ’.” He paused, thinking it over. “No, wait, it was actually, ‘ _T’es beau comme les étoiles_ ’. I also said it on Halloween. And I told you that it means ‘The stars are very beautiful’. Do you remember that?”

Marco scrunched up his face, repeating what Jean had just said several times in his head. After a moment, it clicked, and he nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”

Jean smiled, his cheeks suddenly turning bright red as he looked down at his hands, clasped together in front of him. “That’s not what it means,” he said. “It does have to do with the stars and things, but it doesn’t mean ‘The stars are very beautiful’…” He cleared his throat, glancing up at Marco for a quick second before focusing back on his hands. “It actually means, ‘You are beautiful like the stars’.”

They were both quiet; the silence stretched between them and grew with each passing second, until Jean felt like he was going to explode.

“Marco—” he started softly, though he was quickly cut off by the American boy.

“That’s really what it means?” Marco’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper; he was staring at Jean with wide eyes, an almost scared expression on his face.

Jean nodded. “It’s true,” he said. “ _T’es beau comme les étoiles._ ”

Marco didn’t say anything. His face had turned bright red, and he looked like he had no idea what to think of it all. His gaze was darting all around the car, from the dirty, coffee-stained carpet to the blanket-draped backseat to Jean, who was watching him with a gentle, happy look in his eyes.

Slowly, the French boy leaned in and placed one hand on Marco’s face, focusing all his attention towards him. They stared at each other for a few seconds; Jean could see Marco’s heartbeat pulsing in his neck, and could hear him breathing, sucking in big shaky gasps. Then, he closed the gap between them, and their lips were pressed together. It was rather messy, and Jean ended up shoving Marco against the door—but neither of them stopped. Within seconds, Marco had wrapped his arms around Jean, and was leaning heavily into the kiss.

Pulling back slightly, Jean grinned at him. “ _Est-ce que cela répond à ta question?_ ” he asked, but before Marco could respond, he had been yanked back into the kiss, their teeth clacking together and their noses smashing against each other as their lips met.

Neither of them seemed to care.

 

* * *

 

“So, what now?”

Jean glanced towards Marco, looking at him over the rim of his Styrofoam coffee cup. They were sitting on a bench in one of Kansas City’s parks, having driven the rest of the way to the city and stopped for a drink at a nearby café. They’d then gone for a quick walk, and Marco had stopped them so they could sit in front of the park’s small pond, which was now frozen over and covered in a thin layer of snow.

Jean shrugged. “We could go back to my house, or your’s,” he suggested, and Marco shook his head.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I meant, what now for _us_? Like… are we… _together_ , or something?”

Jean narrowed his eyes slightly, his lips pursed. “You mean like romantic together?”

Marco nodded.

“I hope we are together, then,” Jean said, after a quick pause. “Because I like you and you like me, so it would only make sense.”

Marco smiled, leaning back against the bench. “Good.” A few seconds later, he added, “I just… don’t want to tell anyone yet. Especially not my mom. I don’t really know how she would react.”

“Does she not like same-sex couples?”

Marco sighed, a kind of confused, despairing sigh. “She doesn’t openly oppose them or anything,” he explained. “But she’s the kind of person who gets uncomfortable around gay people; she says she supports them and everything, but I just don’t think she’d be happy if she found out I was gay. It’s like she puts up with them as long as they stay away from her life.”

“So that is what you are?” Jean asked, resting his elbow on the bench and facing Marco. “Gay?”

Marco didn’t say anything for several seconds. He just stared quietly at the frozen pond, before, slowly, nodding.

Jean gave him a small, loving smile. “It almost sucks to find out, doesn’t it?” he said. “Because afterwards, when you finally accept it, you know everything will be different. And I can tell you still don’t really want to accept it, because you referred to gay people with ‘they’ throughout your whole explanation. But you are not alone, Marco. You will never be alone. Okay?” He leaned forward a bit, and saw with slight surprise that there were tears in Marco’s eyes.

The freckled boy turned to him, a sad smile on his face. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely audible through the tears. “I’ve never told anyone before.”

“You can tell me,” Jean assured him. “And when you’re ready, you can tell my parents. They were supportive of me, and they’ll be supportive of you. God, they love you, Marco. You’re like a second son to them already. So don’t worry, okay? Please don’t worry.” He paused, before asking, “Is this why you said you don’t think your father would be proud of you? Because you’re gay?”

Marco’s voice was barely audible as he answered. “Yes.”

Jean sighed. “I never knew your father, so I don’t know what he would think of you being gay,” he said. “But you do have to be optimistic. Because otherwise everything becomes too dark, and you will put yourself in a place too hard to get out of.”

Marco took in a deep breath, nodding. “I’m glad I decided to sit beside you in science class,” he said, a small smile stretching across his lips.

Jean grinned. “I like to think we would have become close even if you hadn’t.”

 

* * *

 

It was late afternoon by the time they got back. The sun was starting to set behind the hills surrounding Jean’s neighbourhood, bathing everything in a warm golden glow that contrasted harshly with the snow-covered ground. As Marco pulled into the Kirschteins’ driveway, Jean unbuckled and leaned over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, before throwing the door open.

“I will see you soon,” he said, stepping carefully out of the car so as not to slip on the slush covering the driveway. Turning back and bending down to peer at Marco, he added, “You’re going to Christa’s New Year’s Eve thing, yeah? Sasha and Connie are forcing me to go, so I’m going to make you go, too.”

Marco grinned at him. “Then I guess I’ll be there,” he said.

Jean nodded and, with a quick wave, closed the door and hurried up the front steps of his house. Right before he opened the door, he looked back and saw Marco watching him, a blissful smile on his face.

Jean’s own good mood, however, vanished as soon as he walked into the entryway. His sister was on him like a vulture in seconds, a mocking smirk on her face.

“ _Comment était ton rendez-vous avec Marco?_ ” she asked, hovering around him as he slipped off his coat and boots. How was your rendezvous with Marco?

“ _C’_ _était_ _d’accord,_ ” Jean mumbled, shrugging. It was okay.

Aimée hummed thoughtfully. “He looked a little distressed when I answered the door,” she said. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine,” Jean snapped, focusing his attention on everything but her; he could feel her staring at him, and knew that if he looked at her face he would just crumble. “Everything’s fine.”

“ _Tu dois pas_ _être si méchant, J,_ ” Aimée said, scowling at him. You don’t have to be so mean, J. “I’m simply asking.”

“ _Ouais, ouais…_ ” Jean nodded, his gaze quickly flicking over his sister; she didn’t look too pleased. Before she could say anything else, however, he was darting up the stairs and into his room, closing the door as quietly as he could.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, on December 31st, Marco once again pulled up in front of Jean’s house. He hadn’t even unbuckled his seatbelt, however, before the French boy was throwing open the front door and hurrying down the steps. Manon appeared almost instantly behind him, a wide smile on her face as she waved at Marco and called after her son.

“Have fun!” she cried, cupping one hand around her mouth, as if her loud, booming voice was hard to hear. “Do not stay out too late! Jean! _Est-ce que t’écoutes?_ ” Are you listening?

“ _Oui_ , Maman!” he called back, pulling open the passenger seat to Marco’s car. “ _Je sais, je sais!_ ”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Kirschtein!” Marco said, rolling down his window and leaning out. “I’ll get him home on time!”

“Good boy, Marco.” Manon grinned at him. “Why can’t you be my son? You are so much better than Jean!”

“Oh, very funny,” Jean scoffed, scowling at his mother as Marco leaned back in his seat. She just waved and turned, going back inside. He could see her watching from the living room window as they backed out of the driveway and onto the street, and she was still watching when they drove off.

Marco waited until they were at the end of the street, pausing at a stop sign, to lean over and place a kiss on Jean’s cheek. “Your mom’s always so funny,” he said, smirking.

Jean huffed, rolling his eyes. “She is very annoying, too,” he muttered.

“Aw, no she’s not,” Marco said, focusing his attention back on the road as they moved forward and turned, heading in the general direction of Connie’s house. “She’s nice! I like her.”

“You don’t have to live with her…”

Marco laughed, and they continued on in silence for several minutes, driving around and trying in vain to find Connie’s house. Finally, after the third wrong turn, Marco pulled over on the side of the road and pulled out his phone. “I can’t remember what his address is…” he mumbled. “Do you remember?”

“I have no idea.”

Marco sighed, tapping out a quick message. “He always takes forever to reply,” he said, shaking his head.

“How did you forget his address?” Jean asked.

“I dunno.” Marco shrugged. “I didn’t really bother trying to remember it.”

Jean laughed, and they fell into a companionable silence, Marco staring at his blank phone screen and Jean watching the sky slowly darken—it looked like it might snow. A few minutes passed, with no answer from Connie, before Marco spoke again.

“Have you told your parents?” he asked, his voice quiet. It took Jean several seconds to realize that Marco wasn’t talking about forgetting Connie’s address; he blinked at him owlishly a few times, before shaking his head.

“No, of course I didn’t,” he said, resting his hand on Marco’s arm; the freckled boy took several deep breaths, and Jean noticed that his hands were trembling.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I just… couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not just your parents, but this _whole thing._ It’s been on my mind for days now, and I was just left alone with my thoughts in the quiet with nothing to distract me... And when I saw your mom earlier, it made it all worse… I’m just trying not to let it show. I don’t know what to do, though. I have _no idea_ what to do.” Letting out a loud sigh, he tossed his phone nervously from hand to hand, scratching at the case with his fingernails.

“It’s okay,” Jean murmured, moving his hand to Marco’s back and rubbing comforting circles into his shoulder blade. “Do not worry. I will not tell my parents until you tell me you want me to. I want you to be happy and safe and comfortable. And if keeping this a secret is what will do that, then that’s okay. That is perfectly okay. I don’t care how long it will take you to become comfortable with all this. I don’t care if it takes you two weeks or five years to be ready to come out to people. But you have me, okay, and we’re going to be alright.”

Marco sniffed and nodded, running his hands over his face and rubbing at his eyes. “Right now it feels like it’ll take a lot more than five years to be able to come out to my mom,” he said. “It’s only been a few days since I really accepted it. I mean, I figured it out years ago, but I didn’t want to believe it… so I ignored it. I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it. I’ve ever wanted was for everyone to be proud of me. I can’t stand the thought that I might disappoint my mom.” He paused, breathing deeply for several seconds before leaning back, resting his head against the seat. “God… We were just sitting here waiting for a text and now I’m almost crying. It’s just I have no one else to talk to about this with.”

Jean gave him a reassuring smile, leaning over to press a gently kiss to Marco’s temple. “You can talk to me about this whenever you want,” he said. “Okay? I know how you feel.”

“How did you come out to your parents?”

“I just told them,” Jean said, resting his chin on Marco’s shoulder. “I just sat them down… and told them. But don’t worry, Marco. I will help you.”

Marco nodded. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

Just then, there were several short beeps, and the screen of Marco’s phone lit up, showing Connie’s response; opening up the message, Marco read it quickly.

“Are you okay now?” Jean asked, and Marco smiled at him.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured him. “I have you.”

 

* * *

 

They showed up at Christa’s house almost half an hour later than they said they would. Everyone was already there, sitting around the TV with drinks, both alcoholic and not, while Ymir rummaged around in the kitchen for food. There were less than a dozen people there—along with Jean, Marco, Connie, Sasha, and Christa, there was Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Ymir, Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie.

Jean was rather to see the last two there; Reiner had gained a reputation in the past few months as a sort of party animal, and had ended up becoming quite popular. Most people also suspected that he had something of a crush on Christa, so it wasn’t too surprising that he was there. And while he and Bertholdt had seemed to be friends at the beginning of the year, they were only ever seen together at school, most likely due to the fact that Bertholdt was much more introverted than his friend. Annie, on the other hand, was never seen with anyone; at first Jean had attributed it to there being a language barrier between her and everyone else at the school, but he was beginning to suspect that she was just a naturally unfriendly person. Which made it all the more of a shock that she was there.

“You’re late.” Christa suddenly appeared in front of them from one of the rooms that branched off the hallway, narrowing her eyes slightly at the small group gathered in her entryway.

“You make it seem like this is some sort of important thing,” Connie said, peeling off his hat and mittens. “It’s just a New Year’s Eve party.”

Christa puckered her lips unhappily at him, but instead of arguing further just shook her head and disappeared into the kitchen to help Ymir; Connie made a face at her as she left, kicking off his boots into the pile by the door.

“Someone’s a bit bitchy…” he murmured, unzipping his coat and throwing it on a hook before hurrying into the living room to join everyone else. Sasha quickly followed him, once all her outdoor stuff was off, leaving Jean and Marco in the entryway alone. As they undid their shoes and hung up their jackets, Marco looked at him, grinning cheekily.

“What?” Jean recoiled from him slightly, a confused expression on his face.

“Promise me you’re not going to get super drunk this time,” Marco said.

“ _Super_ drunk?” Jean asked, raising an eyebrow. “I was not super drunk.”

“You totally were!” a voice from the living room called, and a few seconds later Eren’s face appeared around the corner. “And I should know, because I was as drunk as you were, which was _really_ drunk.”

Jean scowled at him, but Eren just smirked, before disappearing back into the living room. Sighing, Jean turned to Marco. “I promise I will  not get _super drunk_ ,” he said, and Marco smiled, nodding.

“Good,” he said, patting his arm. “Now let’s go.”

Everyone had somehow managed to squeeze themselves into Christa’s rather small living room, where the TV was mounted on the far wall. Both the sofa and the loveseat were full, and Annie was camped out on the chair, pushed into the corner of the room. Everyone else, however, had found themselves somewhere to sit on the floor, using pillows from the couches as cushions.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Christa asked, walking into the living room from the kitchen and glancing between Marco and Jean. “I have soda, beer, and coolers. Or water, if you want it.”

“What kind of soda?” Marco asked, and Christa pursed her lips slightly, running over a list in her head.

“Why don’t you just go and get one yourself?” she asked, after a few seconds. “It’d be a lot easier than me naming them all off. They’re in the fridge.”

Marco nodded, and walked off down the hall to the kitchen. Once he was gone, Christa turned to Jean, giving him a small, almost unimpressed smile. “Do you want anything?”

“I’ll just… euh, go with Marco and get something, if you don’t mind,” he said, and she nodded, stepping out of the way so he could get past her.

“Be my guest,” she said, before going over to where Sasha and Connie were sitting, arguing over which of the dips Ymir had set out were best.

Jean nodded, and hurried down the hallway to the kitchen. It was significantly bigger than the living room, though he figured it only seemed that way because it was significantly less cramped; Ymir and Marco were the only ones in there, besides him. Both of them, however, were standing around the island, hunched over something.

“What are you two doing?” Jean asked, and they both snapped up straight in surprise, as if they had been doing something wrong.

“Jesus Christ, Jean, you scared the shit out of me,” Ymir said, letting out a deep sigh. “I didn’t even notice you come in.”

Jean raised an eyebrow at her. “What were you doing? You sound suspicious.”

The Australian girl laughed, shaking her head at him. “No, I was just showing Marco how to make this dip,” she explained, holding up a dish. The bottom was covered in sour cream, and half of it was layered with peppers and tomatoes. Small cups of vegetables and cheese sat scattered around the counter. “He seemed very interested.”

“I had no idea you could cook,” Marco said, leaning forward and grinning at her. “You seem pretty good.”

“Marco, this isn’t really cooking,” Ymir said, almost like a mother reprimanding her child. Putting the dish back down on the counter, she added, “This is just mixing things together. You don’t need to cook this dip. But thank you.”

“Did you make the dip in the living room?” Jean asked, and Ymir nodded, a small, proud smile spreading across her lips.

“I learned most of these recipes from my mum,” she explained. “She’s an amazing cook. Ever since she was little it was what she wanted to be when she grew up.” She shrugged. “I wish she’d been able to do it.”

“Why didn’t she?” Marco asked.

“Couldn’t afford it. All her life she was poor, and treated like absolute shit.” She sighed, grabbing a bowl of peppers and sprinkling them over the remainder of the sour cream. “If she hadn’t met my dad she would probably be living in the same neighbourhood she grew up in.” She shook her head. “And it was all because she’s Aboriginal. In Australia, if you’re not of perfect European descent, you’re automatically tainted. It’s bullshit.”

Jean raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought you just tanned easily,” he said.

Ymir laughed, smacking her hand against the counter. “No, no, I’m mixed,” she explained. “I lucked out, didn’t I? I’m a mixed-race Australian lesbian living in the American Midwest. Amazing, isn’t it?”

Jean and Marco exchanged glances, Marco suddenly seeming rather uncomfortable and nervous. Ymir looked between the two of them, and sighed.

“Oh, as if you didn’t know I was a lesbian,” she said. “Everyone in town probably knows by now. People here love to jabber on and on, and a dark-skinned Australian girl kissing a pastor’s daughter is very good gossip material. I suppose I wasn’t very careful. Probably should’ve been, mostly for Christa, but also for me. People here aren’t very nice.” She paused, focusing on Marco. “I’m sure you know that, though.”

Marco blinked. “Wh… What do you mean?” he stammered, his face paling considerably.

Ymir smirked, giving the freckled boy an almost annoyed look. “It’s pretty obvious, you know,” she said. “At least to me, because I used to be like you. Does Jean know?”

Marco’s jaw clenched, his hand gripping the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Know… what?”

“Stop playing dumb,” Ymir drawled, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at him. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t. I have no idea. So just sto—”

“You’re gay, aren’t you?” She had leaned close, and was only inches from his face. Her voice was quiet, but Jean could still hear it; he rushed over immediately, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her back.

“Leave him alone, _pute_ ,” he said, glaring at her—she stared right back.

“So I’m right, then?” she asked, grinning slightly. “Don’t worry, though.” Pushing Jean’s arm off of her, she stepped back. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear. I know what it’s like, okay?”

“Then why did you do that?” Jean questioned. “If you know what it’s like, why did you do that to him?”

Ymir shrugged. “He needed it,” she said. “But still. I’m sorry. I just want to help.”

Jean narrowed his eyes at her. “What can you do to help?”

“Give advice,” she suggested, leaning to the side so she could see Marco around Jean; he was still standing by the counter, watching the two of them. “I swear, I want to help. Because you need more than a temperamental French boy with awful hair to help you through something like this.”

“I didn’t think you were the type to help other people for nothing.”

“I’m not a monster,” Ymir said. “No matter what you think or what people tell you. In a shithole town like this, we need to look out for each other.” Shuffling over to Marco, she patted him lightly on the shoulder. “I hope you don’t think I’m too much of a bitch.”

Marco shook his head. “I don’t,” he assured her. “I still think of you the same way I did before.”

Ymir cringed slightly. “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad,” she said, before chuckling. “Now get out of here. You don’t want to miss anything exciting.”

The two of them nodded and, after each grabbing a drink—pop for Jean and a beer for Marco—were on their way back to the living room.

 

* * *

 

It was about an hour before Ymir decided to join them all for more than five minutes. She had finally stopped cooking, convinced by all of them when she brought out what seemed like the hundredth tray of food that they had enough to for an entire army. Jean was pretty sure the kitchen was still full of appetizers, all spread out on platters, but Ymir seemed to have figured out that she should stop trying to make enough food to feed a small nation.

“Shit, I had no idea you were such a good cook!” Connie cried, practically shoving a handful of dip-covered chips down his throat, making it almost impossible to figure out what he was saying. Ymir seemed to manage, however, because she grinned at him and winked, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder.

“Well, thank you, Connie,” she said. “Though you pretty much like anything that’s edible and won’t make you sick, so I don’t know how much of a compliment that is.”

Connie screwed his face up angrily at her and stuck up his middle finger, unable to do anything else due to the chips spilling out of his mouth. Sasha, however, laughed, rather loudly, smirking smugly at Connie and slapping her thighs in amusement.

Ymir rolled her eyes. “You’re not much better, Sasha,” she said, but the Canadian girl didn’t seem to care; she just grinned even wider, and shoveled a whole handful of chips into her mouth.

“Mhm!” she hummed, trying to smile as best as she could around all the tortilla chips.

Ymir sighed, shaking her head, and flopped over onto her stomach, her head resting on Christa’s thighs. “You’re all crazy.”

“And you still manage to surround yourself with us,” Eren observed, leaning back against the couch and raising an eyebrow at her.

“Ah, no, you see,” Ymir said, clambering into an upright position and spinning towards Eren, her finger pointed at him. “ _I_ don’t surround myself with you people, _Christa_ does. And I surround myself with Christa.”

“But you do like us,” Reiner said, flashing her a charming grin.

“In your dreams, Braun,” Ymir snorted, curling her lip up at him and laying back down, staring pointedly at the TV screen. It was showing some sort of New Year’s Eve celebration in what seemed to be Times Square, or at least New York City. The camera was, at the moment, focused on a stage surrounded by people, cheering as some celebrity sang an admittedly catchy pop song.

“Oh, is this the place where they have the big diamond ball thing?” Jean asked. “Isn’t it New York City?”

Christa nodded. “I don’t think it’s diamonds, though,” she corrected. “I’m pretty sure it’s just Swarovski crystals.”

Annie, still curled up in the armchair, gave a little snort, shaking her head. “ _Это кажется пустой тратой для меня_ ,” she muttered, staring at the can of pop in her hands. That seems like a waste to me.

Everyone turned to stare at her, none of them having any idea what she had just said; it was the first time she’d spoken the whole night, and it seemed to have been a snippy comment in Russian.

“Annie, you know no one else speaks Russian,” Sasha pointed out.

“Plenty of people speak Russian,” the blonde girl said, turning to Sasha with her eyebrows raised. “Just none of them are here.”

Sasha narrowed her eyes. “Haha, very witty.”

“Thank you.” Annie’s expression had remained more or less the same throughout the whole conversation, but now she let a small smirk slip across her lips, before she turned back to her pop, shutting out any future rebuttals from anyone else.

 

* * *

 

As the clock drew nearer to midnight, most of them seemed to get more and more drunk. Ymir had ended up dragging a large container of beer and coolers into the living room from the kitchen, and was currently locked in a drinking battle with Sasha, while a somewhat concerned Christa hovered around. Connie and Eren were standing with their arms locked across the other’s shoulders, singing a horribly off-key version of Auld Lang Syne; Armin was lying on the floor pretty much crying of laughter after a failed attempt at conducting as Mikasa sat on the couch looking very unimpressed. Reiner had somehow managed to get a few drinks into Annie, and she was now sitting cross-legged on the floor across from Bertholdt, trying to explain how to make a bracelet from a few pieces of thread. 

Jean had, like promised, stayed away from anything alcoholic most of the night; he’d had a few a beers here and there, but was almost definitely one of the most sober of the bunch, along with Bertholdt. Marco, however, had decided to have as many drinks as he could, and was very noticeably drunk—his face was bright red, and he couldn’t even sit up from where he was sprawled out on the floor without struggling. 

“Jean,” he mumbled, wiping at the beer that had spilled on his face after a failed attempt at drinking while horizontal. “Jean. Guess what.”

“What?” Jean asked, getting on his hands and knees so that his face was hovering above Marco’s.

“It’s almost midnight,” the freckled boy whispered, as if it was some sort of secret. “Do you know what that means?”

“The year changes?”

“No, no,” Marco shook his head, before pausing. “Ok, yes,” he continued. “But it means something else, too.”   
Jean raised an eyebrow at him. “What else does it mean?” 

“It means that I get to kiss you,” Marco explained, giggling. “So that you’re my first kiss of the new year.”  
Jean frowned slightly, falling back into a sitting position. “Are you sure you want me to kiss you?” he asked. “In front of everybody?”

“It doesn’t have to be in front of everybody,” Marco said, rolling over onto his stomach so he could see Jean easier. “We can go to the kitchen or the hall or the back porch or the front porch or the bathroom or my car or the dining room or under the couch. There’s a whole myriad of places we could go, Jeanny boy.” 

“Did you just call me… Jeanny boy?” 

Marco grinned. “Mhmm,” he hummed, resting his chin on the backs of his arms. “ _Oh, Jeanny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling… From glen to glen, and down the mountainside… The la da da… Da da da da la da da na…_ I don’t know the rest.” 

“O…kay.” Jean frowned at him worriedly. “I think you should stop drinking.”

“Oh, shush,” Marco hushed, shaking his head. “It’s fine. But how close is it to midnight? I need to start scoping out places for a New Year’s Eve kiss.”

“Two minutes,” Jean said. “Why don’t we just go to the kitchen?”

Marco considered the option for a moment, before nodding. “Okay, that works,” he said. “Let’s go!” Putting his beer on the coffee table, he somehow managed to hoist himself onto his feet without any help, though he had to grab onto Jean to keep himself from falling as they headed towards the kitchen.

“Hey, where are you two going!” Connie asked, calling after them. "It’s almost midnight!”

“I’m just getting a glass of water for Marco,” Jean lied. 

“You better hurry! Or else you’re gonna miss the ball drop!”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jean said, waving his hand nonchalantly. He helped Marco stumble the rest of the way to the kitchen, where the freckled boy caught sight of the back door and immediately headed towards it.

“We can kiss out here,” he suggested, pulling it open. It lead out onto the back porch, which was covered in snow and ice; as soon as he cracked it open, a blast of cold air blew through the room, causing them both to shiver.

“It’s too cold,” Jean said, hurrying over and closing the door. “The kitchen’s fine. It will work.”

Marco sighed, rather melodramatically, spreading his arms wide and falling against Jean. “Oh, you hurt me so…” he murmured, going limp and not moving even when Jean pushed against him.

“Maybe I should actually get you water,” Jean said, and Marco mumbled something incoherent, shaking his head.

“No, no,” he said, lifting his head up so he could be heard better. “It’s too close to midnight! Get me water after. Okay? Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.”

“Yes, yes, okay,” Jean said, laughing. “How will we know when it’s midnight?”

“You’ll hear the people on the TV counting down from 60,” Marco explained. “And then everyone will cheer. Hurray! And stuff. Got it?”

Jean nodded. “Yes, I got it.”

“Good. Because this is some seriously complicated stuff, Jean. I’m serious, it’s no laughing matter. Stop laughing!” Scowling, Marco smacked lightly at Jean’s arm, trying to get him to stop chuckling. 

From the living room, they could hear their friends beginning to chant, starting at 60 and making their way down, counting out the last minute of the year. Marco pulled back a bit, grabbing Jean’s hands and wrapping them in his own. Quietly, he joined in the countdown, swinging his arms with each number.

“40… 39… 38… 37…”

The closer it got to the last few seconds, the more excited everyone seemed to get—the people gathered in the living room got progressively louder, and Jean could hear more cheers of anticipation coming from the TV. By the time the countdown reached the final 10 seconds, everyone was basically buzzing. Jean was pretty sure most of their friends in the living room were jumping up and down now, and Marco was doing a strange little dance as he counted.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1!”

Right after the clock struck midnight, there were several loud bangs from down the hall, presumably from the party poppers that Christa had set out earlier. Everyone cheered loudly, and Jean smiled widely as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Marco’s. He tasted, unsurprisingly, like alcohol, but Jean didn’t mind—all he cared about was kissing Marco. 

They stayed, pressed together, for quite a while, until the celebrations in the living room died down a bit and the threat of someone walking in on them loomed overhead. Pulling back, Jean rested his head of Marco’s shoulder, burying his face into the fabric of the other boy’s shirt.

“ _Bonne année_ , Marco,” he mumbled.

“Happy New Year, Jean.” 

 

* * *

 

It was nearly 1am by the time Jean herded Marco, Sasha, and Connie out the door. All three of them were too drunk to walk straight, and he had to keep them all upright as they headed to Marco’s car.

“Who’s driving?” Connie asked, leaning heavily against Sasha, who was just as unbalanced as he was. “Because I totally… cannot.”

Jean shook his head, chuckling. “No, you certainly can’t,” he agreed. “I’m going to be driving.”

“I dunno if that’s any better,” Connie said, frowning. “I mean, you’re _French_. How the fuck do you drive over there in French-land?”

Sasha gave a loud snort. “Connie, it’s not _French-land,_ ” she said, her tone mocking. “It’s _France._ Duh.”

“Well, Jesus fucking Christ, somebody better arrest me!” Connie cried, throwing his hands in the air. “I mixed up French-land and France! Whoop-die-fucking-doo! I forgot you were from French-land, _Sasha._ ” Stomping his feet repeatedly on the ground, Connie started lunging at Sasha, waving his hands in front of him as if he was trying to intimidate her.

“I’m not from _Quebec!_ ” Sasha yelled, sounded deeply offended. “I’m from Nova Scotia! Asshole!”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Stepping between the two, Jean grabbed Connie by the jacket and shoved him into the back of the car, before leading Sasha to the front and putting her in the passenger seat. Marco crawled in beside Connie and, once they were all buckled in, Jean sat himself in the driver’s seat and started the car. The three drunks yammered on and on the whole drive, talking over each other and barely even pausing to breathe. By the time both Sasha and Connie had been dropped off at their houses and had safely made it inside, Jean felt like he was going to go crazy.

“My mom is going to be so mad,” Marco said, as they pulled out of Connie’s driveway. “Are you going to take my car? Because I can’t drive it, and it’s too far for you to walk.” He paused. “Jean, I’m so drunk.”

Jean nodded his head, trying not to laugh. “Yes, Marco, I know,” he said. “Do you want to stay the night at my house?”

Marco scrunched his face up. “Ehhh... I wanna sleep in my own bed. I like my bed. It’s very comfy and the stars make me happy. And your house smells funny. Like... foreign.”

“Well, okay.” Jean furrowed his eyebrows slightly at the last comment, but didn’t say anything else about it. “How about I drop you off, take your car to my house, and then bring it to you in the morning. Then we can go do something, if you want, and you can drop me off so you have your car again.”

Marco leaned forward and blinked at him several times. “Jean,” he started. “Your accent combined with the copious amounts of alcohol I drank tonight made that plan literally impossible for me to understand. I’m just gonna let you do whatever you want. As long as I get to my bed and my stars I’m all good. All good.”

“I will make sure you get to your bed and your stars,” Jean said, smiling at him. “Okay?”

Marco nodded, and a few seconds later they pulled up in front of his house. His mother was already sleeping, so Jean helped him out of the car and inside, where they quietly climbed the stairs to Marco’s room. Once there, Jean got him to change into some pajamas and drink some water, before putting him to bed.

“I’m so tired...” the freckled boy mumbled, his head lolling to the side and his eyes slipping shut. “So, so sleepy...”

“Then you should go to sleep,” Jean suggested, brushing a few stray strands of hair from Marco’s face. “I have to leave now, though. Will you be okay?”

Marco muttered a small “yes” and, after pressing a quick kiss to his forehead, Jean quietly made his way back out to the car.

 

* * *

 

Aimée left early that morning. Jean was dead-set on staying in bed, asleep, while his parents drove her to the airport and saw her off, but she seemed to have a different idea. At 4:30am, barely even three hours after he’d gotten home and crawled into bed, she went banging into his room, throwing the door open and shaking him awake.

“Jean! Jean, _reveille-toi!_ _Je pars maintenant!_ ” Jean, wake up! I’m leaving now!

Huffing, Jean swatted angrily at her arms and buried himself deeper into his pile of blankets. “ _Bon,_ ” he mumbled. “ _Au revoir! Je vais pas te manquer._ ” I’m not going to miss you.

“Jean!” Grabbing hold of his shoulders, Aimée shook him as hard as she could possibly could. “ _Pourquoi es-tu si stupide?_ ” Why are you so stupid?

Jean shrugged, pushing her away and curling up against the wall beside his bed. “It must run in the family…” he muttered. “ _J’espère que t’as un bon voyage._ ” I hope you have a good trip.

Letting out an irritated humph, Aimée stepped back from his bed. “Fine,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “ _Je te vois quand tu renteras à la France. Dites à ton petit ami que j’ai dit au revoir, d’accord?_ ” I’ll see you when you get back to France. Tell your boyfriend I said bye, okay?

Groaning, Jean stuck his head as far under his pillows as he possibly could. Aimée just laughed, patting him lightly on the head.

“ _À plus tard, pédé._ ”

“ _Je t’emmerde._ ”

Aimée didn’t respond; Jean heard his door open and close, followed a few minutes later by the front door closing and the car starting up. Pulling back his blankets and sitting up, he peered through the blinds covering his window, and watched as the car drove off, carrying his sister away with it.

Heaving a loud sigh, he fell back against his pillow and, even though he was absolutely exhausted, he didn’t get back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

About a week later, a few days after school started up again, Jean was lying on the floor of his room, trying to read the book assignment Ms. Brzenska had given them when his phone rang. Putting the book down, he rolled over onto his stomach and grabbed his phone off his bedside table, checking to see who was calling him—Marco—before pressing answer and holding it up to his ear.

“ _Salut,_ ” he crooned, resting his chin on the back of his hand.

“Hey,” Marco replied, letting out a deep sigh. In the background, Jean could hear cars and people passing by; the way Marco was breathing made it seem like he was walking rather quickly, and the sound of his feet splashing in slush revealed that he was outside.

“Are you in the city?” Jean asked. “What are you doing there?”

Marco didn’t answer right away. Jean could picture him, clearly, in his mind, walking along a Kansas City sidewalk, one hand in his pocket and the other holding his phone up to his ear, chewing nervously at his lip.

“Marco.” Jean’s voice was low and worried, and he quickly sat up, pressing his back against his bed. “Did something happen?” The city was always where Marco went to escape—he said that the drive out helped him calm down, and walking along the busy streets just made him feel better. There was really no other reason Jean could come up with that would explain why Marco was hurrying through the city alone.

“No, no, nothing happened,” Marco assured him. “Trust me. I just got a little panicked, and it hasn’t really worn off. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Jean scowled; he wanted to believe Marco, but if he had panicked, something obviously happened. “Tell me, Marco.”

Marco sighed, and stopped walking for a moment. “My mom was just asking some questions,” he explained. “Mostly about New Year’s Eve, but about other stuff too... And they made me nervous, so I left. Nothing big; there’s no need to worry. I’m just anxious right now.”

“It’s going to fine, okay?” Jean said. “You don’t need to panic. No matter what happens, it’s going to be okay.”

Marco let out a small laugh. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Why don’t you come over,” Jean suggested, leaning his head back. “I finished The Hobbit, so you can bring the next book in our list over. What was it again?”

“The Boy in the Striped Pajamas,” Marco said. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Perfect.” Pulling his phone away, Jean ended the call and, grabbing his book, crawled up onto his bed, waiting for Marco to get there.

 

* * *

 

The next few weeks passed slowly. As the end of the semester approached, more and more time was being spent studying for final exams. Jean’s mother made him sit at the kitchen table every night and go over everything he’d done in all his classes, and wouldn’t let him go until she was satisfied that he’d reviewed enough.

“You will thank me in a few years,” she said the night before his English exam, as he sat at the table trying to remember the definitions of different words. “Trust me. Good study skills are great to have.”

“ _Ça veut pas dire que je dois étudier pour des heures chaque nuit,_ ” Jean argued. “ _Ça c’est juste cruel._ ” That doesn’t mean I have to study for hours every night. That’s just cruel.

Manon rolled her eyes. “ _Non,_ it’s not,” she insisted, sitting down beside him. “I’m not doing this to you to make you unhappy. I’m doing it because you need to learn how to do these things before you go to university. Otherwise you’ll be stuck not knowing what the hell do to. So stop whining and get working.”

Jean groaned, resting his forehead against the table. His mother didn’t even try to encourage him more; she just laughed and got up, mumbling something about how it’s “his future”.

By the time all his exams were finished, Jean had spent more time than he’d ever wanted to at that kitchen table, with nothing but a bowl of aging fruit and occasionally his parents for company—Marco hadn’t even been allowed to come over and help him study.

“You won’t have a Marco in university,” his mother had said, though Jean suspected she was just trying to make his life miserable at that point.

But exams did eventually end, and the second semester started; most of Jean’s classes stayed the same, though a few changed—his art class switched to music, and computers switched to Spanish. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to either of his new courses, but he figured that anything had to be better than learning about the proper way to use Microsoft Excel for forty-five minutes every day. He was mostly just glad that the school year was already halfway over.

 

* * *

 

“Wait, so why did you choose _Spanish_?”

Jean turned to look at Marco, who was peering at him from behind his locker door, a confused expression on his face. “You know there’re French classes, right?” he asked.

Jean shrugged. “It’s mostly because I would be stuck in French I,” he explained. “They can’t put me in a more advanced class just because I speak the language; I have to have the right credits. Which I don’t.”

“Well, what’s wrong with French I?” Marco asked, furrowing his eyebrows together.

“It’s French for people who do not know any of the language,” Jean said. “So you would learn how to say things like ‘Hello, my name is…’ and ‘Today, the weather is…’ and it would just be boring. How would you like taking an English class for beginners?”

Marco sighed. “Yeah, okay, but _I’m_ in French I. It wouldn’t have been boring with me, would it?” He flashed Jean a wide grin, bouncing back and forth of the balls of his feet.

Jean snorted, shaking his head. “Yes, it would probably still be boring,” he said. “Sorry.”

Marco stopped his bouncing, narrowing his eyes at Jean. “Sasha’s in that class, though,” he argued. “And she speaks French.”

“Obviously she doesn’t mind putting herself through torture,” Jean said, grabbing his books and closing his locker door. “But she’s Sasha. Taking a class for a language she already knows is something she would do.”

Marco let out a deep sigh. “Fine,” he huffed. “I’ll just have to have Sasha and Eren for company.”

Jean laughed. “Have fun with that,” he said. “But you will live.”

“Yeah, yeah, but it’d be more fun with you there,” Marco said, pouting slightly as he and Jean walked off down the hallway.

“Oh, _tu sais que je l’aime,_ ” Jean said, grinning and rolling his eyes at Marco’s dramatic reaction. “I believe in you; you will be fine.”

“I know,” Marco groaned. “But anyways, I have to get to my French class, which is apparently below Jean Kirschtein and his high language class standards.”

“Haha, so funny,” Jean mumbled, gently shoving Marco’s shoulder. “Get out of here.”

Marco smirked. “Yes, your highness,” he said, giving a quick bow before turning and walking off down another hallway.

Jean watched him go for a few seconds; once he disappeared into the crowd of students meandering around, he headed off towards his own class which, thankfully, wasn’t too far.

Before he could get there, however, Sasha appeared behind him, grabbing hold of his shoulder and using it to propel herself in front of him, a wide, cheeky grin spread across her face. Jean, not expecting someone to suddenly jump out of nowhere at him, flinched back, nearly knocking into several students and a teacher in the process, which resulted in quite a few angry glares and one or two mumbled curse words.

“ _Alors,_ ” Sasha started, leaning towards him and winding her arm through his. “ _Qu’est-ce que c’est tous ça, avec Marco?_ ” What was all that, with Marco?

Jean furrowed his eyebrows at her, trying to yank himself free. “ _Qu’est-ce que tu parles de?_ ” he demanded. What are you talking about?

“ _Plus tôt,_ ” Sasha explained. “ _À ton casier._ ” Earlier. At your locker.

“Sasha, _ça c’est pas très spécifique._ ” That’s not very specific.

“ _Tu sais_ _,_ ” Sasha said, shaking his arm impatiently. “ _Tu sais, tu sais, tu sais_ _._ ”

Raising an eyebrow at her, Jean pulled his arm from her grasp. “No, not really,” he said, speaking in English. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

Sasha pursed her lips unhappily, sighing and crossing her arms. She seemed to take a few seconds to try and figure out what to say, before taking in a deep breath. “ _Es-tu... comme..._ avec _Marco?_ ” Are you... like... _with_ Marco?

“ _Pas au moment, non._ ” Not at the moment, no.

Sasha gave him a very unimpressed look. “Not what I meant to say, dumbass,” she replied, shaking her head. “ _Je veux dire... Aimes-tu Marco?_ ” I mean... Do you love Marco?

Jean froze. He’d had an idea of where Sasha was intending to lead the conversation, but he’d hoped he could change the subject before she got there, or at least that she wouldn’t be so direct about it. Taking a few deep breaths, he turned to face her. “Why are you asking this?” His voice was quiet, and he hoped that she couldn’t hear how nervous he was—he felt like his knees were about to give out.

“ _J’ai entendu ce que tu as dit,_ ” Sasha explained. “ _À Marco._ ” I heard what you said. To Marco.

“… _Quoi?_ ”

“ _T’as dit que tu l’aimes,_ ” she said, furrowing her eyebrows a bit. “ _Et, il ya quelque semaines, Marco m’a demandé ce que ces phrases en français veulent dire. Pour la plupart je pouvais pas les comprendre, mais il y avais un que j’ai comprendé un peu._ ” You said that you love him. And, a few weeks ago, Marco asked me what these French sentences meant. For the most part I couldn’t understand them, but there was one I understood a little.

She paused, before continuing in English, “He’d told me they were just some random sentences you’d told him but hadn’t translated, so he asked me to tell him what they meant. His pronunciation was pretty bad, though, and he didn’t remember half of almost all the sentences. But that one he did remember... I think it was something like, ‘ _t’as un beau sourire_ ’. Probably not that exactly, but that was enough.”

Jean flinched slightly, shrinking back from Sasha. “... _Quand est-ce arrivé?_ ” When did this happen?

Sasha shrugged. “Early last month?” she suggested. “I’m not too sure. But it wasn’t hard for me to put the pieces together—I told him you said you liked his shoes. I figured that if you hadn’t given him a translation you didn’t really want him to know what you said.” She gave him a wide grin, rocking back on his heels and grasping her hands together behind her back. “ _Ça, avec le ‘je t’aime’ chose, m’a conduit ici._ ” That, with the “I love you” thing, led me here.

“ _Tu peux pas dire à personne,_ ” Jean said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her off to the side, as if people might understand what he was saying. “ _Je suis sérieux. Personne d’autre peux savoir._ ” You can’t tell anyone. I’m serious. Nobody else can know.

“Does Marco know?”

Jean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “ _Oui, oui, il sais_ _,_ ” he said, nodding. “ _Nous sommes... ensemble._ ” We’re... together.

Sasha’s whole face lit up, and she smiled widely. “ _Vraiment?_ Oh, great! Great, great, great, great, great! When did that happen?”

“Sasha, _s.v.p.,_ _ferme ta gueule,_ ” Jean said, practically grabbing her lips and holding them shut. “ _C’est pas_ great, great, great, great, great. Okay? Marco cannot know that you know. It would just... not be good. _C’est pas un grand problème pour_ moi _si tu sais, mais pour Marco... Il est juste très nerveux au moment. D’accord?_ ” It’s not a big problem for _me_ if you know, but for Marco... He’s just really nervous right now. Okay?

Sasha nodded. “Yeah, okay,” she said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I can do that. _Je vais pas dire à personne._ ” Letting her hand fall down to her side, she smirked slightly, kicking her foot against the floor. “So... Can I still tease you about it in French?”

Jean groaned, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Go to class,” he grumbled, pushing her away and walking off down the hall. “You’re going to make us both late.”

Behind him, he could hear Sasha laugh quietly to herself, before she turned and hurried away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
>  _spontané:_ spontaneous
> 
>  _Est-ce que cela répond à ta question:_ Does that answer your question
> 
>  _Je sais:_ I know
> 
>  _Pute:_ bitch
> 
>  _Bonne année:_ Happy New Year
> 
>  _À plus tard:_ See you later
> 
>  _Salut:_ Hello
> 
>  _Tu sais que je l’aime:_ You know that I love you
> 
>  _Alors:_ So
> 
>  _Il sais:_ He knows
> 
>  _S.V.P.:_ acronym of _s'il vous plaît_ which means please
> 
>  _Ferme ta gueule:_ Shut up
> 
>  _Je vais pas dire à personne:_ I won't tell anyone


	6. Doute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pipe cleaner crowns, Valentine's Day, and confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes!! I finally managed to churn this chapter out. I feel really bad for all the long waits there's been between chapters, but I was super busy with moving until like three weeks ago, and then school started getting a bit busy and I couldn't really find a lot of time to write between all these messes. We're kind of getting settled in now, though we've been living with my grandparents for the past six-ish weeks, and then we're moving to a rental house because our own house probably won't be finished until late November at the absolute earliest. I really really hope that I'll have more time to write in the coming weeks, and that updates will be much faster.
> 
> Chapter Title: Doubt
> 
> Lyrics: On my route,
> 
> I had moments of doubt,
> 
> I'm walking without really knowing where,
> 
> I was stubborn without a care.
> 
> On my route,
> 
> I had no checked baggage,
> 
> And not a cent in my pocket,
> 
> Just family between us.

_Sur ma route,_

_J’ai eu des moments de doute,_

_J’marchais sans savoir vers où,_

_J’étais têtu rien à foutre._

_Sur ma route,_

_J’avais pas de bagages en soute,_

_Et dans ma poche pas un sou,_

_Just le famille entre nous._

_-Sur ma route,_ Black M

 

* * *

 

Jean leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Marco’s back and resting his chin on the boy’s shoulder. It was the first Sunday in February, and the two were sitting in Marco’s room, trying to get their homework done for the next day—or at least Marco was trying to. Jean, on the other hand, had been sitting around for the past half hour, playing with a bag of pipe cleaners he’d found on Marco’s desk.

“Look,” he said, pulling back and holding something in front of Marco’s face. “I made a crown.”

Marco wasn’t sure if “crown” really described whatever it was that Jean had made. If anything, it was more like a very bland, undecorated circlet—nothing but two pipe cleaners twisted around each other and tied together at the ends. “You know,” he said, taking the creation and turning to place it on Jean’s head. “I could’ve sworn that you took Spanish, not Procrastination.”

Jean narrowed his eyes at the freckled boy, scowling. “I finished my Spanish homework,” he informed him, crossing his arms. “It’s really easy. Like French, but different.”

“Say something in Spanish, then,” Marco said, grinning.

“ _Rojo._ ”

Marco raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s just red.”

“Ah, but it’s in Spanish,” Jean countered.

“Say an actual sentence.”

“Alright, just give me a moment,” Jean said, pulling out his phone and typing something into it.

Marco glared at him. “You can’t use Google Translate!” he argued, trying to grab Jean’s phone from his hands.

Jean managed to dodge his grip, rolling around so he was on the other side of the bed, the crown falling off his head in the process. “You’re too slow!” Jean cried, triumphant, letting Marco take his phone. “Because _mi novio es un idiota._ ”

Marco scrunched his face up at Jean. “Whoever said I was your _novio_?” he asked teasingly.

Jean smirked, moving so that his face was only a few inches from Marco’s. “Who said you weren’t?”

Marco narrowed his eyes at him, blowing a puff of air into his face. “I think you’re the idiot _novio_.”

“So I am your boyfriend.”

Marco actually blushed, his entire face turning a bright shade of pink. Looking down, he fiddled with the buttons of his calculator, clearing the equations typed out on it and turning it off and on. “It’s just… weird to think about,” he said eventually.

“Good weird or bad weird?” Jean asked, tilting his head to the side.

“It’s good,” Marco said, nodding. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Jean smiled, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Marco’s lips. The freckled boy, while a bit surprised at first, quickly kissed him back. They sat like that, pressed together, for several seconds, until Marco pulled back, his face still flushed.

“So you’re my boyfriend now?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Jean nodded, grabbing Marco’s hands. “ _Et t’es le mien._ ” And you’re mine.

Marco blinked at him a few times, looking like he was searching for the right words to say. Finally, after a moment or two more of thought, he lifted Jean’s hands, kissed them, and said, “ _Ça c’est bon._ ”

That’s good.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Jean sat by himself in the cafeteria at lunch, quietly reading a book. All around him, everyone talked and laughed loudly, though he managed to tune them out, focusing on what he was reading and nothing else.

Suddenly, however, someone was sitting themselves down beside him, and he looked up to see not only Sasha but Connie, both grinning at him widely.

“Jean!” Sasha cried, setting her tray of food down. “Why are you sitting over here by yourself? Where’s Marco?”

“ _Il a un projet qu’il doit faire,_ ” Jean explained. “ _Alors il est dans la bibliothèque._ ” He has a project that he has to do, so he’s in the library.

“Oh, okay.” Sasha nodded, before continuing in French, “ _As-tu des plans pour Saint Valentin avec Marco?_ ” Do you have plans for Valentine’s Day with Marco?

Before Jean could answer, Connie coughed, rather loudly, looking between the two of them with a glare. “Yes, hi,” he said, waving his hand as if to get them to acknowledge him. “Can you speak English, please?”

Sasha scowled at him. “Why don’t you learn French?” she asked.

“Oh yeah, because me learning an entire language is _way_ simpler than you two speaking English,” Connie said, waving his arms around in confusion.

“Two against one, asshole. Get used to it.”

Glowering at both of them, Connie stood up. “I’m going to find Eren,” he announced, grabbing his tray. “He’s nicer to me.”

“Aw man, Connie,” Sasha whined, leaning back as the boy walked off. “Connie, come on, dude. Connie, I was just kidding! Connie! Come back.” He didn’t listen to her, however, and just kept walking, until he spotted Eren and went to sit down next to him. “Damn,” she sighed, sitting back up. “There he goes.”

Jean chuckled, shaking his head. “ _C’est ta faute,_ ” he said, grinning at her. It’s your fault.

“Oh, I know,” Sasha lamented, leaning on the table melodramatically. “I drove him away! I have no one to blame but myself… And you, for making me speak French like the son of a bitch I am.” Looking up at Jean, she dissolved into a fit of giggles, sitting up straight and smirking.

“Poor guy,” Jean said, heaving a dramatic sigh. Sasha gave a little snort and grabbed her pizza, taking a huge bite out of it.

“He’ll live,” she mumbled around the food, shrugging. “But, now—” She paused to swallow. “— _sérieusement. As-tu des plans pour Saint Valentin?_ ” Seriously. Do you have plans for Valentine’s Day?

“ _Quoi, t’as pas confiance en moi?_ ” Jean asked, staring at her like he was seriously hurt. What, you don’t trust me?

Sasha considered this for a moment, before shaking her head. “ _Non, pas vraiment,_ ” she admitted. No, not really.

“ _Je suis blessé par tes mots, Sasha. Blessé._ ” I’m hurt by your words, Sasha. Hurt.

“But it’s true,” Sasha said, smiling innocently at him. “I can’t trust you with a single damn thing. So, _quels sont tes plans?_ ” What are your plans?

Jean heaved a loud sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. “ _J’ai pas des plans,_ okay?” he said. “ _Pourquoi est ça—attends, non! Non! Je parle pas de ceci avec toi._ ” I don’t have plans, okay? Why is that—wait, no! No! I’m not talking about this with you.

“What, why?” Sasha cried, gaping, open-mouthed at him. “I’m trying to help!”

“ _J’ai pas besoin de ta aide,_ ” Jean said, crossing his arms. I don’t need your help. “I can do this on my own, if I’m even going to.”

Sasha scowled unhappily at him, before sighing. “Fine, okay,” she said, lifting her hands up in defeat. “Do you whatever you want. _C’est tes relations._ ” It’s your relationship.

Jean nodded. “ _Merci,_ ” he muttered, letting out a relieved sigh. “ _Oh mon Dieu, t’es fou._ ”Oh my God, you’re insane.

Sasha just grinned, shaking her head.

 

* * *

 

That afternoon, Jean and Marco stood outside the school, waiting for the buses. It was surprisingly warm for February, with the sun shining brightly and the few remaining patches of snow on the ground melting quickly. If the weather stayed like this, it would all be gone within the next two days or so. Jean was honestly a bit relieved; he liked snow, but after more than a few weeks it just became an annoying hassle. Marco, however, seemed to be the exact opposite.

“I can’t believe it’s almost all gone already,” he complained, staring at the small pile of dirt-filled snow slumped against the side of the school. “It never lasts long enough.”

“You should move up north,” Jean suggested. “To a place like Wisconsin or Canada. I’m sure Sasha would like that.”

Marco crinkled up his nose unhappily. “But it’d be too cold in the summer.”

“You are never happy, are you?” Jean asked, though he was grinning.

Marco smiled, shaking his head. “Besides,” he continued. “Sasha’s being kind of weird. And Canada’s just weird in general. Did you know they spell centre like c-e-n-t-r-e instead of c-e-n-t-e-r?”

Jean paused, blinking at him a few times. “That’s how we spell it in France,” he said.

“Yeah, but you speak French in France,” Marco argued. “So you’re not spelling an English word, you’re spelling a French one.”

Jean shrugged. “I’m pretty sure when we’re learning English we spell it c-e-n-t-r-e, too,” he countered, smirking. “So it’s probably just America that is weird.”

Marco pursed his lips, thinking. “Yeah, okay,” he said, after several seconds. “That’s pretty much true.”

Jean laughed, shaking his head. “You are a weird people.”

 

* * *

 

Jean was sprawled out on his bed, his phone held up above his face as he typed out a message.

**À: Marco**

**i keep forgetting to tell you, but we’ll be finding out soon if we’re staying for another year or not**

**De: Marco**

**I hope you will be!! Only one year’s not enough.**

**À: Marco**

**i’m sure we will stay. you can’t be rid of me that easily**

**De: Marco**

**Good :)**

 

* * *

 

That Saturday, the two of them sat upstairs in Marco’s room, their lips pressed together and their hands tangled in the other’s hair. Marco’s face was flushed bright red, and Jean could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he pulled him closer, dragging his fingers down his neck to his back, across his arms and the expanse of his stomach. Riding his shirt up a bit, Jean grazed his hands along the skin above Marco’s hips, and felt the boy jump under his touch, pulling back and staring, wide-eyed, at him.

Jean hummed, leaning forward and nuzzling at Marco’s neck.

The freckled boy took in a deep, shaky breath, gripping Jean’s shoulders and gently pushing him back. His face was almost the shade of a tomato, and he was avoiding Jean’s gaze, his eyes darting all along the floor of his room. “I...” he started, before slamming his mouth shut and chewing the inside of his cheek. Jean furrowed his eyebrows at him, his head leaning to the side.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice soft and careful.

“I... I-I’m too scared,” Marco admitted. “I don’t... I don’t want my mom to walk in... and find out. Not like this.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

Jean smiled warmly at him, grabbing his hands and bringing them up to his lips. “Okay,” he said.

Marco blinked owlishly at him. “...You’re not mad?” he asked, almost hesitantly.

“No, of course not,” Jean said, shaking his head. “Why would I be mad?”

Marco sighed. “I don’t know...”

“Well, I’m not,” Jean assured him, climbing off the bed and turning on the TV that sat on Marco’s dresser. “I understand why you’re scared. So I’m not mad. At all.”

Marco scowled unhappily at his blanket. “I can’t believe I’m so scared of this…” he mumbled.

“Hey, stop,” Jean said, sitting across from him again. “You are allowed to be scared. Of anything, and everything. So don’t do this.” He paused, smirking. “And honestly, I’d be kind of scared of kissing you like that at my house, even if my parents knew. My mom can be terrifying.”

Marco stared at him for several seconds, a small smile creeping across his face. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Okay.”

Jean grinned, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead. “Now come on, _trésor_ ,” he said, picking up one of the controllers sitting on the floor and tossing it to Marco. “Show me how to play this assassin game you like so much.” Marco’s smile grew, and he happily took the controller from him, starting up the game.

Several minutes later, as Jean was struggling through the beginning of the game, Marco sat beside him, cringing every couple of seconds.

“You know,” Jean said suddenly, not even looking away from the game, which he was failing miserably at. “I wasn’t going to go _that_ far.”

Marco raised an eyebrow at him, confused, before realization dawned on his face. “You so were,” he argued, kicking Jean in the side.

“Ow, _merde!_ ” Jean cried, swatting at his leg. “I am honestly insulted that you think that.”

“You’re a teenager, of course you were going to.”

Jean turned to glare at him, which resulted in a sword through his character’s pixilated chest, and he had to restart the mission for the third time. “You don’t give me enough credit,” he countered, scowling at both Marco and the TV.

“It’s probably because you suck at this game,” Marco teased, taking the controller from Jean’s hands and showing him what he had to do.

“The instructions are confusing,” Jean said, crossing his arms over his chest like a cranky toddler. “It’s not my fault.”

Marco laughed, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Whatever you say.”

 

* * *

 

Jean hummed thoughtfully to himself, narrowing his eyes at the screen of his phone. At that moment, he was laying with most of his upper body hanging off his bed, so that his head was pretty much touching the ground. He wasn’t exactly sure how or why he ended up in that position, but he was too busy thinking to consider the possibilities—Eren had just sent him a Snapchat of him standing in a tree, with the camera pointing towards the ground, where a concerned Armin was standing below him. The caption read, “your turn, frenchy boy”, and Eren was grinning widely at the camera. Muttering something under his breath, Jean let the photo disappear.

About three weeks ago, Jean and Eren had started a competition to see who could come up with the most ridiculous Snapchats. There was only one rule: the pictures had to be selfies, so no one else could take them. It had, of course, quickly devolved into “who could put themselves in the most danger without actually dying”, which Connie, as the moderator, found highly amusing. The higher your chances of being hurt were, the more points you got. So far, Eren was winning by two points.

About a minute after Eren sent his picture, Connie sent his judgment: three points, which brought Eren’s total up to seventeen. Jean cursed silently, putting his phone down on the ground beside him and crossing his arms, scowling at the ceiling. He needed to come up with something good now if he had any chance of winning—they had decided that the first one to one hundred points would win, and though it seemed like it would take them a while to get there, Jean couldn’t afford to get any further behind.

Suddenly, his phone rang, the tone blaring loudly in his ear. He nearly fell off his bed in surprise, struggling to grab it as he tumbled, sliding his feet off. Marco’s name lit up the screen, and Jean quickly answered it, holding the phone up to his ear.

“Oh, hi, Marco,” he said, his voice coming out a bit strangled as he twisted himself around in order to stand up.

“Uh, Jean…?” Marco asked, sounding concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Ah, yes, totally,” Jean said. “I was just… yeah.” Coughing a bit awkwardly, he sat down on his desk chair, slowly spinning it around as he spoke. “Anyways… what are you up to?”

“Oh.” Marco paused, as if he was unsure how to continue. “I, uh, actually wanted to ask you something. Well, it’s more like _telling_ you something, but I... guess you get it.”

Jean furrowed his eyebrows, wondering why Marco sounded so nervous. “Then, what is it that you would like to tell me?” he asked, swivelling around and tapping his fingers on his desk.

Marco didn’t answer at first. He seemed to be building himself up to it, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I think...” he began, carefully choosing his words. “I think I want to tell your parents. About us.”

Jean froze, stopping himself mid-spin and staring at the wall, as if he was looking at Marco in disbelief instead of his obnoxiously large Star Trek poster. “...You do?” He pretty much choked the question out—that had just about been the last thing he expected Marco to say.

“I do.” Jean could almost hear the shy smile on Marco’s face as he answered. “I think I can do that. I think I want to. I mean, if you do, of course.”

“Yes, that’s great,’’ Jean said, grinning widely. “I think that’s great. When do you want to do it?”

“I was thinking Valentine’s Day,” Marco suggested. “Do you think that’d work?”

“Oh God, Marco,” Jean groaned, laughing and running his hand over his eyes. “That’s like something from a bad, _cheesy_ romantic movie.”

Marco huffed unhappily. “Really?” he asked. “Because I always thought of us as more of a romantic comedy kind of situation.”

“What? No, we’re not _that_ much of a comedy, are we?”

“We’re pretty ridiculous, Jean,” Marco said, almost as if he was delivering some sort of bad news. “You have to admit that.”

“Okay, yes,” Jean said, pouting. “Kind of.”

Marco just laughed. “Sure,” he muttered. “But I didn’t think Valentine’s Day was such a bad idea.”

“It’s not, I guess,” Jean said, smiling at his bedroom floor. “It will work fine. Alright?”

“Alright.” He paused, moving his phone away from his face for a moment, as if he was listening to someone else talking. Putting his phone back against his ear, he said, “Ah, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Bye.” With that, Jean hung up, setting his phone on his desk.

He was proud of Marco; it hadn’t even been two months since they’d started their relationship, and just a few weeks ago Marco would have felt sick over the idea of telling anyone about them. And now he wanted to tell Jean’s parents, and had even been the one to bring it up.

Jean wasn’t at all nervous—he knew how his parents would react, and just wished Marco knew it, too.

 

* * *

 

Valentine’s Day was that Friday, and, despite what Jean had hoped, the further they got into the week, the more nervous Marco seemed to be.

When Jean saw him on Monday, the day they had decided to tell his parents, Marco was perfectly fine. Maybe even a bit excited. He spent the whole day smiling, which, while not out of character, made Jean happy.  He was pretty much the same on Tuesday, as well.

But then on Wednesday, he started to crack. There would be moments where he would just sit there, not saying anything as a panicked look crept into his eyes, until he snapped himself out of it, smiling anxiously at everyone, hoping they hadn’t noticed. But even though Jean did, he didn’t ask him about it. Later that day, however, he sent him a quick text message, just to be sure.

**À: Marco**

**are you okay?**

It took Marco almost an hour to answer, his reply short and quick.

**De: Marco**

**Yeah, I’m fine. Why?**

**À: Marco**

**you just didn’t seem like you were feeling to great today**

**De: Marco**

**I’m perfectly fine. You don’t need to worry.**

Jean figured that was a lie, but he let it be—there was no point to them arguing over text message.

The next day, however, Marco seemed even worse. He barely looked at Jean the whole day and, if he did, this look of panic and anxiety overwhelmed his face before he quickly turned his attention to something else. Whenever they spoke, Marco would stare at his hands or the floor, and try to make the conversation as short as possible.

Finally, right after the last period, Jean found Marco just about to leave his locker and dragged him away, outside to a side of the school hardly anyone ever walked by.

“Jean, what are you doing?” Marco asked, looking around nervously, as if he didn’t want anyone to see them alone together. Jean realized with a jolt that that was probably right—Marco didn’t want anyone to see them and get the “wrong idea”.

“I want to know if you’re alright,” Jean said. “You have been acting weird all day. You were acting like you don’t want to talk to me or look at me, and when you did you got all... panicked.” He paused, letting out a deep sigh. “Marco, what’s wrong?”

Marco flushed pink, staring at the ground, still damp from a shower of rain earlier in the day. “There’s nothing wrong, okay?” he insisted, kicking at a small, damp pebble. “I’m fine.”

He turned, trying to walk away, but Jean stopped him, grabbing his arm and pulling him back.

“Is this about telling my parents?” he asked, moving his grip to Marco’s hand to keep him there. “Because you’re not fine. That’s obvious, and you’re a terrible liar. If this is about that, we don’t have to tell them. So just tell _me_ what is wrong.”

“It’s not just about your parents,” Marco said, giving a frustrated sigh. “It’s everything else, too. I’m just so tired of it. And even though I’ve decided that we’re going to tell your parents, and even though I know that that’s me taking a step forward, it makes me realize that I have no idea when or how I’m going to tell my mom. I don’t even know if I _want_ to, because the idea of it just makes me so scared. Any time I think of telling _anyone_ , I just get this sick feeling in my stomach. And it’s so exhausting to always be this scared, and I don’t want to be scared, but I don’t know what else to do. I really don’t.”

Jean stared at him for several seconds, chewing on the inside of his lip as his mind searched for words. “Marco, I...” He stopped himself, running his thumb across the back of Marco’s hand. “I... want to help you not be scared. But I don’t really know how to do that, because I’m scared, too. I am scared of my sister, and I am scared of every new person I meet. And I am trying to do everything I can, but I hate when you feel like this. Because _I’ve_ felt the same way you feel right now, and sometimes I still feel it.

“And this is going to sound really stupid and hard to believe, but it doesn’t suck forever.” Jean gave him a small smile, tightening his hold on Marco’s hand. “You’ve probably heard it a thousand times. But everything does not suck forever. I promise.”

Marco took in a deep breath, bringing up his other hand to encircle Jean’s. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice sounding strained. “I... I love you, Jean.”

Jean blinked at him a few times, and Marco turned bright red, staring at the ground. But Jean gently touched his cheek, lifting his head back up. “ _Je t’aimes, aussi,_ ” he said, and kissed him.

 

* * *

 

They both ended up missing their buses, and so instead they walked to Marco’s house, hurrying along the sidewalk in the hopes of outrunning the next downpour of rain that looked like it was headed their way. They pretty much made record time and, sure enough, only a minute or two after they stepped inside, it started pouring.

“This is such warm weather for February,” Annabel said, suddenly walking into the kitchen, where Jean and Marco were standing, peeling off their jackets and shoes. “I mean, it’s pouring out there! I wish it were snowing...” She sighed wistfully, before smiling at the two boys. “At least you didn’t get caught in it. That wouldn’t have been fun.”  

“No, it wouldn’t have,” Marco agreed, picking his backpack up from where he put it and shuffling Jean toward the stairs.

“Hm, wait, before you go,” Annabel said, stopping them. “Why were you so late? Did you miss the bus?”

“Uh, yeah.” Marco nodded. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you I’d be a bit late.”

“How’d you miss the bus?”

Beside him, Jean could feel Marco freeze. He stared at his mother for a few seconds, his mouth open in a wide “uh...” before he managed to spit out an answer.

“I was helping Jean look for one of his notebooks,” he lied. “His locker’s such a mess, it takes forever to find anything.” He laughed and smiled awkwardly, slowly backing out of the room.

Annabel almost looked as if she could tell her son was lying, but she didn’t say anything about it. She just shrugged and told him to be more aware of the time from now on, before turning and opening one of the cupboards.

“I will be,” Marco promised, pushing Jean up the stairs as he hurried away.

Once inside Marco’s room, Jean let out a little laugh, flopping down onto his boyfriend’s bed. “You’re such a bad liar,” he told him, grinning.

“It’s not funny, Jean,” Marco whined, grabbing a pillow and smacking the other boy in the face with it. “My mom’s so good at seeing through lies. She’s going to find out about us one day if we’re not more careful! You could help, you know. You’re better at lying than I am.”

“Only in English,” Jean said, sitting up. “In English, people always assume that when I pause or stumble over my words it’s because I have no idea what I’m saying. The accent helps. Though I’m pretty good in French, too.”

“Then you do that lying from now on,” Marco said, sighing and taking a seat beside Jean, his head resting on his shoulder. “After we tell your parents,” he continued, taking one of Jean’s hands in his own, absently playing with his fingers, “we should work on telling our friends. Like Connie, Sasha, Armin... All them. Ymir already knows, and I have a feeling she told Christa. But we won’t do that right away. It’ll just be... our next step.”

Jean smiled, nodding. Looking at his lap, he interlaced his fingers with Marco’s, twisting around to kiss him, lightly, on the head. He wanted to tell him about Sasha, but while he had as perfect an opportunity as any, he didn’t think now would be a good time—they were planning to tell Jean’s parents the next day, and he didn’t know how Marco would react to the news that Sasha knew about them. So he kept quiet about it.

“That sounds like a good idea,” he said. “Don’t worry; we’ll figure everything out eventually.”

 

* * *

 

After he left that evening, Jean didn’t see Marco until science class the next day. He was sitting in his usual spot, anxiously tapping his pen against the desk. He didn’t say anything when Jean walked in and sat beside him, just letting out a loud sigh and twirling the pen even faster, until Jean had to cover his hand to stop him.

“ _Ça va être d’accord,_ ” he said, and even though he knew Marco couldn’t really understand what he was saying, he hoped he at least got the idea. “ _Alors calmes-toi._ ” It’s going to be okay. So calm down.

“If you’re trying to give me more advice, you don’t need to,” Marco said, dropping the pen and retracting his hand from under Jean’s. “I’m fine. Honestly.”

Jean blinked at him a few times, before nodding and leaning back in his seat. “Okay,” he mumbled. “I was just making sure.”

“You don’t have to,” Marco told him, sighing. “I’m not super fragile or anything.”

“I never—”

Jean was cut off by Hange suddenly walking into the class, dropping their bag onto their desk at the front and loudly greeting everyone. “Good morning!” they chimed, pulling a binder from their bag and flipping through it. “Did you all do your homework last night? Page 337, questions 1 through 14.”

Jean let out a deep sigh, shooting Marco one last glance before digging out his homework. Marco didn’t say anything else after that, but he kept giving Jean reassuring looks, as if to remind him that he was okay.

 

* * *

 

Marco got on Jean’s bus after school that day, sitting beside him on his typical seat. They were quiet for the whole ride, not saying a single word to each other; Marco spent it staring at his lap, while Jean focused his attention out the window. When they finally got off at Jean’s stop, the freckled boy let out a loud sigh, wiping his hands nervously on his jeans.

“So, how are we going to do this?” he asked, looking around to make sure none of the other kids were near enough to hear them.

“We just... walk in and tell them,” Jean said with a shrug. “Well, we don’t have to do it right away. We can wait if you want.”

Marco shook his head. “No... I want to get it over with.” He paused, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “It’s a good thing that we’re doing this... I think... but I think the more we drag it out, the more nervous I’ll be.” He let out a loud sigh. “I feel like it would have been better if I didn’t come, and you just told them on your own.”

“It’s too late for that,” Jean said. “So we’re going to do this together. Got it?”

Marco sighed, nodding. “Okay...” he said, anxiously picking at his fingernails. “Alright.”

“I think my mom’s the only one home right now, though.” Jean frowned slightly, before continuing. “My dad’s still at work probably. So we’ll only be able to tell her right now.”

Marco stared at him for a few seconds, before letting out a loud groan, burying his face in his hands. “You make it sound so simple...” he whined. “But then I actually think about it and it sounds impossible!”

“Hey.” Jean scowled, reaching out his hand and flicking Marco in the forehead. “Do not start panicking. You cannot do that. Otherwise it _will_ be impossible.”

Marco let out a little cry as Jean’s finger thumped against his forehead, glaring at him and smacking him unhappily. “You don’t have to flick me,” he mumbled. “And I wasn’t going to panic.”

“Holy shit, Marco, you were,” Jean argued. “You totally were. I can tell when you’re about to start panicking, because you start talking quickly and loudly, and get all... shaky. And you have absolutely no reason to be like that, at all.”

“I know, I know,” Marco said, scuffing his feet along the sidewalk. “I just can’t help but get nervous. I’m sorry.”

Jean sighed, playfully bumping his shoulder against Marco’s. “Don’t apologize,” he told him, smiling. “And don’t worry.”

Marco nodded, stopping for a second when they reached Jean’s house, before hurriedly following the other boy up the driveway to the front door.

“Maman!” Jean cried, stepping into the entryway with Marco and kicking off his shoes. “Marco’s here!”

“Hello, Marco!” Manon yelled, her voice coming from somewhere near the dining room. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Marco answered, shuffling awkwardly on the tile. “How are you?”

“I’m excellent, Marco, absolutely excellent,” Manon said. “Are you two going to be working on homework?”

Jean cast Marco a quick glance, setting his backpack down on the stairs and hanging his coat up. “Maman, it’s Friday,” he reminded her, going back over to Marco and taking his jacket from him. “And, euh... I have something I have to tell you.”

He heard Marco take in a sharp breath and reached over, taking his hand in his own.

“Did you get in trouble?” his mother demanded, her tone suddenly turning harsh and scolding.

“No, no, I’m not in trouble,” Jean assured her. “It’s... good news.”

“Oh.” Manon actually sounded rather surprised, and Jean could hear her getting up from where she was sitting, her footsteps quickly growing louder as she walked to where the two of them stood. Beside him, Marco tensed, his gaze going to the floor as his hand tightened around Jean’s. “What...” Manon slowly trailed off when she stepped into the entryway, her gaze flicking from her son’s face to Marco’s face to their hands. “...is it?”

The three of them stood there for what felt like minutes, Manon glancing between the two and Jean staring at his mother, while Marco focused on the floor, a bright red blush staining his cheeks. As the silence grew around them, a smile slowly spread across Manon’s face until she was grinning from ear-to-ear, and Jean actually looked rather frightened.

“Yes, Jean?” she asked, prompting her son to actually say what she guessed she already knew. “What do you want to tell me?”

Jean glared at her, letting out an annoyed sigh. “You’re really going to make me say it?” he asked, speaking in French. “ _Vraiment?_ ”

Manon grinned. “Make you say what, _chèri_?” she questioned, tilting her head to the side. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“ _T’es impossible!_ ” Jean groaned, running his free hand along his face. “You obviously know what I’m talking about!”

“Jean, _mon gar_ , you are being very confusing,” Manon said, still talking in English while her son spoke in French. Marco kept glancing between the two with a very unsure expression on his face, trying to piece their conversation together based on what Manon was saying.  

Jean didn’t say anything—he just scowled at his mother, his grip slowly tightening on Marco’s hand until the freckled boy let out a little cry, his hand basically crushed.

“Jean, what—you’re going to break my hand!” he yelled, rather panicked, pushing against Jean’s arm to try and get him to let go.

Without taking his eyes off his mother, Jean loosened his grip, and Marco slipped his hand out, rubbing it unhappily. “Calm down, dear Lord,” he said, narrowing his eyes at Jean. “Why are you getting so mad?”

“ _She’s_ making me mad,” Jean argued, motioning angrily at his mother.

“You’re the one making things difficult, Jean,” Manon said with a shrug. “Come on, just tell me!”

Jean sighed deeply. “Maman, I know you’re just doing this because you knew it would annoy me,” he said, glaring at her. “But... okay... Marco, he... _il n’est pas juste mon ami._ ” He’s not just my friend.

Manon raised an eyebrow at him, smirking triumphantly. “...Oh?” She tried to sound surprised, and almost managed to, though Jean could tell that she’d known what he was going to say all along. “Then, what is he?” she asked, and Jean determined then that she just liked to watch him suffer and that God was certainly punishing him for something he’d done in a past life by giving him a mother like her.

Still, he somehow managed to hold his tongue and keep himself from continuing his argument with her. Instead, he grabbed Marco’s hand again, though he kept his grip relatively loose, and took in a deep breath. “He...” Jean started, but stopped, trying to erase the glower from his features. “He’s... my boyfriend.”

The bright tinge on Marco’s face deepened at Jean’s words, and he stared at his feet; Jean could even feel his own cheeks heat up as Manon watched the two, a smile playing on her lips as he waited for her response.

“Marvelous,” she said, clasping her hands together with a small clap. “ _Marveilleux._ ”

Jean rolled his eyes at her as she hurried over, hugging Marco tightly. “This is a wonderful Valentine’s Day surprise,” she said, squeezing the freckled boy and patting his back. “Though I have to say, I wasn’t _too_ surprised, and I was hoping this would happen.”

“Why were you hoping?” Jean asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Because,” Manon said, pulling back from Marco and chuckling to herself. “You two just won me twenty dollars.”  

Jean blinked at her, his mouth falling open in surprise. “You... Did you _bet_ on us?” he demanded.

His mother nodded. “With your father,” she answered. “I said that you two would get together eventually, but he insisted that Marco is... hm... I’m not sure what the English word is... But he was convinced he is _hétéro_. Which he obviously isn’t, because you two are dating now. And that means he owes me twenty dollars.”

“...Do not see how weird that is?” Jean asked, gaping openly at her. “ Seriously. That is really weird.”

Manon pursed her lips, frowning at him. “If it makes you feel any better, we did the same thing with Aimée,” she said.

“Not really,” Jean said, shaking his head and leading Marco towards the stairs, before his mother could say anything else. “We’re going upstairs. You ruined the moment.”

“Oh, wait, before you do!” Manon cried, hurrying after them. “Is there any chance you would have started dating that Canadian girl? Oh, what’s her name...? Shannon? Cheryl? Something like that. That’s who your father thought you would go with.”

“You ruined it, Maman!” Jean yelled back, refusing to answer her question as he practically ran up the stairs and into his room, Marco in tow.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, after Marco had gone home, Jean sat at the table with his parents, picking at the plate of food in front of him with his fork. The two of them had talked about nothing but Marco since his father had gotten home; his mother had told him the news almost immediately, and that had set them both off into a stream of questions.

“ _Et sa mère, elle sais pas que vous êtes ensemble?_ ” Manon asked, leaning against the table. And his mother doesn’t that you’re together?

Jean shook his head. “ _Non,_ ” he answered. “And Marco doesn’t want to tell her yet.”

“ _Pourquoi?_ ” his father questioned, furrowing his eyebrows. Why?

“He’s afraid of what she will think,” Jean explained. “And that she’ll be mad and upset.”

“Would she disown him?”

Jean shrugged. “I have no idea,” he said. “Maybe.”

Manon clucked her tongue unhappily, shaking her head. “ _Bien, Marco peut toujours trouver une maison ici,_ ” she said. Well, Marco can always find a home here. “Let us just hope that it never comes to that.”

Jean nodded, swirling his peas around his plate. “ _Je sais pas quoi il va faire,_ ” he admitted, after a moment of silence. I don’t know what he’s going to do.

“Whatever he needs to,” his father said, sighing. “ _Mais n’inquiéte pas trop._ ” But don’t worry too much.

“ _Ça c’est presque impossible..._ ” Jean muttered, slumping down in his chair. That’s almost impossible.

“ _Tout va être d’accord,_ ” his mother assured him. “ _Je promets._ ” Everything will be okay. I promise.

Jean didn’t answer.

 

* * *

 

Letting out a loud sigh, Jean rolled over on his bed, craning his neck to stare out his window onto the street below. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, with only a few clouds dotting the sky here and there, as several kids played outside in their driveways and on the sidewalk, building dirt-filled snowballs with the last dregs of snow and chucking them at each other.

Flipping back onto his side, Jean scanned his room for his phone, somehow hoping he could find it amidst the mess of clothes and discarded school supplies without getting up. After about five minutes of half-assed searching, he resigned himself to actually getting off his bed and looking around, digging through piles of sweaters and socks until it appeared in a corner of his room. He didn’t really understand how it got there, but he supposed that with the state his room was in anything was possible, and simply kicked the mass of clothes back to where it was before hopping back onto his bed which, ironically, was neatly made with almost hospital-like corners.

Unlocking the phone, he scrolled through a few missed notifications, looking to see if he’d gotten a message from Marco; he’d texted him about forty minutes ago, wondering how he was, but he hadn’t gotten a response yet. Scowling at the screen, he put his phone back to sleep and tossed it off to the side, grabbing one of his books from where it was lying on the floor and opening it to where he had last left off.

 

* * *

 

Jean didn’t hear from Marco for the rest of the weekend, and just about tackled him to the ground when he saw him in the hallways at school on Monday morning, demanding to know if something had happened and why he hadn’t answered any of his messages.

“Jean,” Marco interrupted his quickening flow of questions, placing his hands on the French boy’s shoulder. “I’m fine. My grandparents are over for a visit and my mom took my phone away because she thought I’d spend more time with them if I didn’t have any ‘distractions’.” He smiled, though it seemed a bit tense and strained. “You don’t need to worry about me so much. Really.”

Jean frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Marco assured him, nodding. “I swear.”

Jean stared at him for a moment, his lips pressed into a tight line and his eyebrows drawn together like he didn’t quite believe what Marco was saying, but wanted to. “I was just making sure,” he said, shrugging.

“I know,” Marco mumbled, picking at the corner of the notebook he was holding. “I just don’t like you worrying about me so much.” He sighed, glancing around at the people swarming around them. “I guess we should get to class now... The bell’s going to ring soon. I’ll talk to you later, I guess.”

Jean nodded. “Yeah,” he said, turning and walking in the direction of his first class; when he looked back, Marco was gone.

 

* * *

 

Marco was quiet for the next few days; he didn’t talk much, and didn’t pay a lot of attention to any conversations. He still smiled and laughed, but it seemed subdued. He was nervous and jittery, constantly jiggling his legs or twisting his hands together, as if he was trying to expel his anxieties through constant movement. Whenever he was near Jean, he would keep a few feet between them, and never looked at him directly.

Finally, on Thursday, Jean had had enough. When the final bell rang, and students swarmed to the exits, he managed to find Marco in the crowd and, grabbing his shoulder, turned and pushed him towards one of the back doors, which led out to the soccer field. Marco jumped at the sudden force, spinning to see who it was shoving him against the flow of other students.

“Jean, what are you doing?” he asked, trying to duck away from him. “Uh... I have to get to my bus...”

“I have to talk to you,” Jean said, guiding Marco off to the side where they were out of the way of everyone else, before loosening his grip and letting his hands fall to his sides. “I am not going to force you to talk with me, but I’m concerned about you. You tell me not to worry, but you make it really hard, and I can’t help but do it.”

Marco blinked, shoving his hands into the pocket of his coat and scuffing his feet along the ground. “There’s nothing for you to worry about,” he said. “You don’t have to talk to me about anything.”

“Marco.” Jean’s voice was quiet, and he stared at the freckled boy even as he tried to avoid looking at him. “Please.”

“What would you even have to say?”

“Plenty,” Jean said, turning back in the direction of the doors and motioning for Marco to follow him. “Just please come with me.”

Marco let out a loud sigh, taking a second to look at the people around them; most of the students had now filed outside, and only a few still lingered in the halls. Slowly, he nodded his head, following after Jean as he led him out back and across the field to where a few sets of bleachers stood. They sat down on the bottom row, Marco shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and hunching over, as if blocking his face from a cold wind that wasn’t there.

“So, what’s all this stuff you have to say?” he asked, kicking his feet against the dead, yellow grass.

“What happened?”

Jean’s question seemed to catch Marco a bit off guard, and he stared at him for a few seconds. “I... what do you mean?” he questioned.

“Something happened,” Jean insisted. “You’ve been acting nervous and unhappy all week, like someone hired an assassin to kill you and you know they’re coming. What happened?”

Marco didn’t answer, his face screwed up into a tight expression.

“Is it because we told my parents?” Jean continued, trying desperately to pry the answer out of his boyfriend.

“It’s not because of that.” Marco’s tone was almost harsh, and he appeared to regret his words as soon as he said them, turning his head away so he didn’t have to look at Jean.

“Then what is it?” Jean asked, his voice quiet and careful.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Well, it’s obviously something,”

“No, it’s not.”

“Marco, haven’t we gone over this?” Jean was frowning, and when he tried to reach out to Marco, he moved away, sliding down the bench and away from his touch. Jean’s hand hovered in the air for a few seconds, before falling to rest in the space between them. “You can tell me anything.”

“But I don’t _want_ to,” Marco snapped loudly, shooting Jean a quick glance before looking away again, focusing on a tree several metres away. “And I don’t _need_ to. You don’t have to know everything.”

Jean blinked at him, surprised by his words; Marco didn’t get angry often, and he almost never raised his voice. He was always the calm, reasonable one, able to keep his cool even in the middle of chaos. Jean was the one who snapped and yelled and lost his temper. Not Marco.

“I’m... sorry,” Jean said, hesitantly. “I’m just—”

“You’re worried, I know,” Marco interrupted. “But, _please_ , don’t be. I can look after myself; I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will.”

“Then you don’t have to constantly check on me,” Marco said. “Okay?”

Jean didn’t really know what to say, so he just nodded.

“Alright,” Marco mumbled, standing. “I should... go. My mom’s going to worry if I’m too late.”

Jean just nodded again.

“I’m not mad at you,” the freckled boy added, as he slowly started to back away towards the school. “Just so you know.”

“I know.”

Marco nodded, before turning and running back to the building. Jean sat on the bleachers for several minutes after he was gone, before finally standing and walking the three kilometres back to his house.

 

* * *

 

“Where has Marco been?”

Jean glanced up from his homework to his mother, sitting across the table sipping at her coffee. “He hasn’t been over lately,” she continued.

“His grandparents are visiting,” Jean explained, looking back at the math equations laid out in front of him. “So he’s been busy with them.”

“Oh,” his mother said, nodding. “ _D’où viennent-ils_?” Where are they from?

Jean shrugged. “Pennsylvania, _je pense_ ,” he muttered. “ _Je suis pas certain._ ” Pennsylvania, I think. I’m not sure.

“Hm, well, perhaps when they leave Marco can come over for dinner one night,” Manon suggested. “Though I suppose there will be plenty of time for that, especially if we stay for another year.”

Jean hummed in agreement, writing out the answers to the equations in his notebook, listing off the numbers in his head as he went along. _Y est égal à x carrée plus douze x plus quatre. Y minus quatre est égal à x carrée plus douze x. Y minus quatre plus trente-six est égal à x carrée plus douze x plus trente-six. Y plus trente-deux est égal à x plus six tout carrée._

 

* * *

 

The first thing Marco did when he saw Jean the next day was apologize, pulling him off to a secluded hallway and anxiously crossing his arms over his chest as if he was worried about how Jean would react.

“I’m sorry about what happened yesterday,” Marco admitted, picking at a loose thread on his cardigan. “I didn’t mean any of the stuff I said, and I feel guilty over how I acted. I was just... I don’t know, stressed. I really wasn’t mad at you, but I guess walking away didn’t help that...” He paused, rubbing his bottom lib between his teeth. “I hope you’re not mad at me.”

Jean shook his head. “I’m not,” he said. “It was not all your fault; I shouldn’t have tried to get you to tell me things you didn’t want to. So I’m sorry too.”

 “It’s fine,” Marco said, smiling. “I’m glad you’re not mad.”

“I could never really be mad at you,” Jean assured him. “You’re too much of a saint.”

Marco rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.

 

* * *

 

Jean spent most of that afternoon wandering around various rooms of the house, trying to do the bit of homework he’d been assigned that night and failing horribly. He’d been stuck on the same two paragraphs of his history textbook for the past half hour by the time Manon had to leave to pick his father up from work, unable to process what he was reading and staring glumly at the glossy pages, as if that might give him all the answers.

“If you’re that stuck, why don’t you ask Marco for help?” Manon suggested, as she stood beside him in the kitchen, making sure she had her keys, wallet, and phone with her. “I don’t think I’ve seen you turn a single page of that book since you opened it an hour ago.”

“ _C’est pas comme je peux pas le comprendre,_ ” Jean said. It’s not like I can’t understand it. “I just can’t focus on it. I read a few words and then I realize I wasn’t paying any attention to what I just read, so I have to go back and read it again.” He sighed loudly, resting his chin on his arms and pouting. “ _C’est si difficile, Maman._ ” It’s so hard, Mom.

Manon laughed softly, shaking her head. “ _Je peux pas t’aider, mon fils,_ ” she said. I can’t help you, my son. “Try reading it aloud, or writing it down. Or even translate it into French.” She shrugged, before walking from the kitchen to the entryway. “I will be back in a little while! Keep trying while I’m gone.”

Jean groaned, glaring at the picture of the propaganda poster from World War I at the top of the page; he could hear his mother shuffling around a bit in the entryway, before the door swung open and closed and the car started up in the driveway.

Almost as soon as his mother was gone, Jean sat up straighter in his chair, grabbing his phone and scrolling through his missed notifications. He was about to start replying to the lengthy e-mail his grandmother had sent him a few hours earlier, mostly as a way to procrastinate, but before he could get to far he realized his phone only had two percent of its battery left. Grumbling, he turned it off and put it back down, making a mental note to charge it later.

When his parents came back about forty-five minutes later, Jean was messing around with Google Translate on his mother’s computer, churning the same sentence through dozens of different languages until it was nearly unrecognizable. By the time the two of them walked through the door, he had managed to change “ _On ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur_ ” into “ _Définir, mon cœur_ ”, and was already thinking of another sentence to try and bastardize beyond recognition.  

“Jean!” Manon called, and he quickly closed the tabs he’d opened and shut the laptop, hurrying back to where his textbook was and flipping it a few pages ahead. “Jean, _fais-tu tes devoirs?_ ” Jean, are you doing your homework?

“ _Bien sûr!_ ” Jean cried back. “ _J’ai presque fini._ ” Of course! I’m almost finished.

“Ah, that is good,” his mother said, walking into the kitchen and dropping her bag onto the table. “Because your father has some great news!”

Jean raised an eyebrow at her, looking towards his father as he hurried into the room. “ _Qu’est-ce que c’est?_ ” he asked. What is it?

“ _On reste ici pour une autre année!_ ” his father announced, grinning widely. We’re staying here for another year!

Jean stared at him, shocked. “ _Vraiment?_ ” Really?

His mother nodded. “He was accepted into the program that goes until next year,” she said. “ _Alors on retourne pas en France cet été._ ” So we’re not returning to France this summer.

“That means I’ll graduate here then, _n’est-ce pas_?” Jean asked.

“Yes,” Manon said, her smile turning into a slight frown. “It might cause some problems if you wish to go to university in France, though I’m not entirely sure. We’ll have to figure that out, probably before you start grade twelve. Hopefully it won’t be too big of an issue.”

“I don’t think it will be much of a problem,” Jean’s father said. “There’s no need to worry a great deal about it.”

Jean shrugged. “I wasn’t very worried to begin with,” he mumbled.

“Oh, I’m sure you were hoping we’d stay another year,” his mother said, smirking. “If only so you could spend more time with Marco.”

Jean turned to glare at her, rolling his eyes and scoffing. Manon just kept grinning, like she knew she had been right.

“But speaking of Marco...” Jean said, still scowling at his mother. “Can I take the car? I want to tell him that we’re staying for another year.”

“If you want me to stop teasing you about him, you’re doing a bad job trying to make it happen,” Manon said, raising an eyebrow at him. When he groaned, she laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m kidding, _mon chèri._ Of course you can take the car. But why don’t you just call him? Or even text him?”

“He doesn’t have his phone,” Jean explained. “He has it at school during the day, but once he gets home his mother takes it away. He says it’s because she wants him to actually spend time with his grandparents while they’re visiting, instead of hiding behind his phone screen.”

“You could just call his home.”

“I want to tell him in person,” Jean said. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

His mother sighed. “I don’t care how long you are,” she said with a shrug. “Just don’t be out _too_ late.” Rummaging through her purse, she pulled out a set of car keys, handing them to her son. “And say hello to Annabel for me, please.”

Jean nodded, taking the keys and hopping up out of his chair, letting his textbook flip closed. “I’ll be back in about an hour,” he said, ducking out of his parents’ way and into the hallway, a big grin on his face.

The sun was just beginning to set when he left his house, and it slowly sank further beneath the horizon as he drove, covering everything in a golden yellow light. He had the radio blaring, and he sang along to the lyrics of the songs, though he didn’t know the words to most of them, or even what the artists were saying.

Marco’s house was quiet when he arrived; his mother’s car was parked out front, along with a truck Jean assumed to be his grandparents’. The porch light was on, and a soft gleam could be seen coming from behind the curtains covering the front window. Climbing out of his car, Jean went up to their front door, ringing the bell and listening as it rang throughout the house.

An old woman was the one to open the door, tall and slender with the same freckles and curly hair as Marco’s mother, though her’s was more grey than brown. She smiled politely at Jean, leaning against the doorframe. “Hello,” she greeted, her voice coated in a thick southern accent.

“Hi,” Jean answered. “Is Marco here?”

“Oh, one moment, love,” the woman said, leaning back into the house and yelling, “Marco! There’s a foreign boy here looking for you!”

“Coming!” a voice replied from somewhere inside.

The woman turned back to Jean. “What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked, and Jean stared at her for a moment, trying to sort out what she had said through her accent, while she looked at him expectantly.

“My name?” he questioned, and she nodded. “Oh, it’s Jean.”

“Ah, yes!” the woman cried, clapping her hands together. “Marco’s told me about you. You’re his little French friend.”

“...I guess, yes.”

The woman smiled widely. “I’m Marco’s grandmother, Tabby,” she said, reaching out to shake his hand. “But you can call me Gran.”

Jean wasn’t really sure what to say to that, but thankfully Marco saved him from having to worry.

“Hey, Jean,” he greeted. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything is fine,” Jean said. “I just want to talk to you for a minute. Is that okay?”

Marco furrowed his eyebrows at him, but nodded, slipping past his grandmother out onto the front porch, closing the door behind him. Grabbing Jean by the wrist, he led him out and along the side of his house, where they were hidden from anyone walking by or peering out any windows. “What is it?” the freckled boy asked, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and shivering against the late winter wind. He looked nervous, digging the heel of his foot into the wilted, yellow grass and jiggling his arms anxiously.

“We found out if we’ll be staying for another year,” Jean said, unable to keep himself from grinning.

Marco blinked in surprise, going still. “What? Are you?”

Jean nodded, and Marco broke out in a huge smile, basically throwing himself at his boyfriend and slinging his arms around him. Jean laughed, enveloping Marco in a tight hug. “Oh my goodness,” the American boy breathed, his words coming out like a long sigh. “You scared me. I thought something was wrong, or you were going to break up with me, or something.”

Jean shivered at the way Marco’s warm breath tickled the back of his neck, tightening his grip around him. “No, no,” he assured him. “Everything’s fine. Everything’s perfect.”

“I was so worried you would be leaving this summer,” Marco said, pulling away from Jean, a smile still stretched across his lips. “I don’t want to lose you so quickly.”

“You won’t,” Jean said, gathering Marco’s hands into his own. “Even when I go back to France, you won’t lose me.”

Marco looked down at their hands, running his thumb along Jean’s palm. “I hope not,” he said, his voice quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary of not just french words this time:
> 
> _mi novio es un idiota_ : I don't actually speak Spanish so idk if this is right but it means "my boyfriend is an idiot"
> 
> _merci_ : thank you
> 
> _Je t'aimes, aussi_ : I love you, too
> 
> _vraiment_ : really
> 
> _chèri_ : dear
> 
> _t'es impossible_ : you're impossible
> 
> _mon gar_ : my boy
> 
> _Y est égal à x carrée plus douze x plus quatre. Y minus quatre est égal à x carrée plus douze x. Y minus quatre plus trente-six est égal à x carrée plus douze x plus trente-six. Y plus trente-deux est égal à x plus six tout carrée_ : Y equals x squared plus twelve x plus four. Y minus four equals x squared plus twelve x. Y minus four plus thrity-six equals x squared plus twelve plus thirty-six. Y plus thirty-two equals x plus six all squared.
> 
> _On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur_ : famous quote from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's famous book Le petit prince. It means "one sees clearly only with the heart"
> 
> _Définer, mon coeur_ : Define, my heart
> 
> _n'est-ce pas_ : there's really no direct English translation, but it's basically used to confirm something. Like "That means I'll graduate here then, right?"
> 
> _trésor_ : treasure


	7. Lésions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Candy stores, March break, and peanut butter cookies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will I ever update regularly? tune in next time to find out
> 
> (also if you're French and I got some things wrong about France in this chapter I'm sorry I tried)
> 
> Chapter Title: Lesions
> 
> Lyrics: Three hundred lesions and the curtains close,
> 
> Twenty-one grams taken in the atmosphere.
> 
> And you will me smile at the only place where I shine.
> 
> I feel like I'm where it should be,
> 
> On my picture a cigarette hole.
> 
> And you will easily see me one night where the moon is full.

_Trois cent lésions et les rideaux se ferment,_

_Vingt-et-un grammes pris dans l’atmosphère._

_Et tu me verras sourire du seul endroit où je brille._

_J’ai l’impression d’être là où il faut être,_

_Sur ma photo un trou de cigarette._

_Et tu me verras sans peine un soir où la lune est pleine._

_-Poupées russes,_ Kyo

 

* * *

 

Marco’s grandparents left a few days later, meaning he was finally freed from having to spend as much time as possible with them, and was allowed to spend more time with Jean and his other friends.

The Friday after they left was one of the warmest days of the year so far, sunny and cloudless. Rather than spend it outside, however, Connie decided, after school, to pile Sasha, Jean, Marco, and himself into his car and take them all to the city to experience what he insisted was “the absolute best candy store in the entire world, I am not even kidding, I swear to God”.

“Are we actually going all the way to the city for some candy?” Marco asked as they crossed over the bridge into Missouri, leaning forward from his spot in the back seat. “That seems like a lot of trouble for not a whole lot.”

Connie let out a rather horrified, insulted gasp, taking his eyes off the road for a second to turn to Sasha, as if asking her to translate his horror into words for him.

“Marco, it takes like half an hour,” Sasha said instead. “Stop your damn whining.”

“This better be the best candy store ever,” Marco mumbled, falling back into his seat.

“It is,” Connie assured him. “I don’t lie about these things.”

The rest of the trip was spent arguing over radio stations and music choices (Jean’s taste was too French, Sasha’s was too folksy, Connie’s consisted of too many classic rock songs, and Marco’s was just boring), and then, when they arrived, where Connie should park. Of course, the city was rather busy, so there weren’t many parking spaces, and they ended up driving around in circles looking for one until a spot finally cleared up several blocks from the store.

Climbing out, Connie led the way to the store, looking very much like a kid walking downstairs on Christmas morning. Sasha let out a satisfied sigh as the wind blew down the street, rolling up the sleeves of her sweater.

“Ah, it’s so nice out,” she said, smiling happily. “It doesn’t even feel like February!”

“It’s not even fifty degrees out, Sasha,” Connie said, turning to stare at her with a raised eyebrow. “Is it actually so cold in Canada that forty-five degrees is warm to you?”

“Connie, in the winter it can get below negative thirty,” Sasha pointed out. “I think that’s like negative twenty Fahrenheit? Anyways, it gets goddamn _cold_. Nothing compared to the baby winters you get down here. Your January is my April.”

“I hope you melt in July when it’s one hundred degrees out,” Connie said, scowling. “Let’s see how your Canadian blood handles _that_.”

Sasha narrowed her eyes at him. “There’s no fucking way that it gets one hundred degrees here,” she said.

“It doesn’t really,” Marco interjected. “It’s really rare, but it has happened.”

“That sounds like hell,” Jean said, scrunching his face up in disgust.

“Just be glad we’re not further south,” Connie added. “Then it’d _really_ be hell.”

“I don’t even wanna think about that...” Marco groaned, as if the mere idea of living in the south pained him.

“Well, you don’t really have to,” Connie said, spinning to face them with a wide, excited grin on his face. “Because we’re there!”

Jean raised an eyebrow at him. “We’re in hell?”

Connie’s smile dissolved into a disappointed frown. “No, Jean, we’re not in _hell_ ,” he said. “We’re at the shop!” Turning on his heel, he held out his arms in front of him, pointing the candy store out to them.

It, quite honestly, didn’t look like any sort of candy store; Jean was expecting bright colours and wild signs, but the storefront was rather subdued. It blended in with the other shops surrounding it, the most colourful parts being the teal sign announcing that the store was called Candace’s, and the candies displayed in the front windows.

“This shop is probably the farthest thing from hell there is,” Connie added, marching up to the door and walking in.

The inside wasn’t much different from the outside, at least when it came to decor. The walls were painted a neutral off-white colour, and the counter was clean and black. However, there was an insane amount of colour swallowing up the room, all coming from the shelves and shelves of candy lining the walls.

It seemed like every type of candy there could possibly be was in that shop. There were the usual ones you normally saw, like gummy bears and Jolly Ranchers, mixed in with bags of more specialized sweets and even pastries. It was like someone had taken a child’s fantasy and dumped it all into one store.

“See? Absolutely nothing hellish about this place,” Connie said, smirking as he started to stroll around the room, surveying the multitude of options.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much American candy in one place,” Jean mumbled, looking around with a sort of dazed, shocked look on his face.

Marco raised an eyebrow at him. “Really? Candy’s everywhere.”

“Yes, but this store is mostly American candy,” Jean pointed out. “I’ve never seen a thing like it.”

“I guess you don’t really have most of this stuff in France,” Sasha said, picking up a large box of Nerds. “So now’s your chance to eat all the foreign junk you won’t get to later.”

“Yes!” Connie cried, hurrying back from where he had been peering at a box of Danishes. “And I’ll help you pick out the _best_ stuff. Come on!” Grabbing Jean’s elbow, he pulled him away to one of the shelves, asking which candies he’s had before and giving his own opinions on each type.

Watching the two, Marco laughed, shaking his head. “Who knew Connie was such a candy connoisseur,” he said.

“But is anyone really surprised?” Sasha asked, shrugging.

“Not really, I guess,” Marco admitted.

Connie dragged Jean around for almost half an hour until they had collected what he deemed a significant amount of inaugural American candy. After they had all payed, they went back to Connie’s car, piling in with their bags of sweets.

“I still feel like that wasn’t worth a trip to the city,” Marco said, once Connie had pulled out onto the road.

“That’s because you can’t appreciate candy the right way,” Connie argued. “I, for one, found this to be a very worthwhile trip.”

“Same,” Sasha agreed, speaking around the Jolly Rancher in her mouth. “What ‘bout you, Jean boy?”

Jean looked up from inspecting the packaging on one of the bags of candy Connie had chosen for him, one eyebrow raised. “What about me?” he asked, confused.

“ _Penses-tu que cette voyage était une bonne utilisation de ton temps?_ ” Sasha asked.

“I... suppose?” he suggested, as if he wasn’t sure if that was the right answer or not.

“See?” Sasha said, choosing to ignore the questioning tone in Jean’s answer and turning to face Marco. “Even your boyfriend thinks this trip was a good idea.”

There were a few seconds before any of them realized what Sasha had said. Connie was the first to register what was off about her statement, turning for a split second to give her a confused look. Sasha was the second to realize, noticing Connie’s look and figuring out rather quickly what it was for.

Marco’s outward expression barely changed as he processed what Sasha had said, but his face turned ghostly pale, and it seemed a bit like he was about to throw up. Jean was the very last to realize, unsure for several seconds why everyone had suddenly turned deadly quiet until he went over what Sasha had said in his head and found the responsible word.

“What.” Connie was the first to break the silence, dutifully keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead, but furrowing his eyebrows together and scrunching his face up in confusion.

“ _Es-tu sérieuse, Sasha?_ ” Jean asked, gaping openly at her as she turned to face him, wincing. Are you serious, Sasha?

“ _Ça n’était pas un bon chose de dire,_ ” she said, frowning deeply. That wasn’t a good thing to say.

“Oh, _vraiment?_ ” Jean cried, sarcastically, though her expression was enough to show that she regretted her mistake. “ _Je pouvais pas voir ça! Merci beaucoup pour cette observation!_ ” I couldn’t see that! Thank you so much for that observation!

“ _Tu ne dois pas être si méchant!_ ” Sasha yelled, a scowl crossing her features. You don’t have to be so mean! “ _C’était un accident!_ ” It was an accident!

“ _Je ne so_ —”

“Why the fuck are you two yelling at each other in French?” Connie cried, breaking through their argument and cutting Jean off. “Holy shit.” Letting out a deep breath, he continued, “Are you two actually fighting because Sasha called Marco your boyfriend, Jean? Because that’s a little—”

“Shut the fuck up, Connie,” Jean snapped, glowering at him.

“Stop being such a goddamn asshole, Jean,” Sasha said. “God, this is why no one likes French people.”

“He has no idea what he’s talking about,” Jean argued.

“And telling him to shut the fuck up will _definitely_ make it better.”

Jean huffed angrily, crossing his arms over his chest like a toddler that had just been scolded by his mother.

“Can someone just please explain this to me?” Connie asked, scowling. “And oh my god, please help Marco, he looks like he’s going to be sick.”

Jean turned to his boyfriend, who looked like he was fighting off a rather extreme bout of nausea. He was staring straight ahead at the back of Connie’s seat, unblinking, one hand curled around his stomach and the other tugging anxiously at his hair.

“Marco.” Jean kept his voice quiet as he leaned to the side, placing his hand on Marco’s arm. “Hey, Marco. Look at me.”

Slowly, Marco turned his head to face Jean, taking in a big swallow of air. “How does Sasha know?” he whispered, barely audible.

Looking towards the girl, Jean muttered something in French before turning back to Marco. “It is okay, Marco,” he assured him, moving to grab Marco’s hand. In front of them, Sasha started talking to Connie in a low voice.

“But how does she know?” Marco repeated. “Did you tell her?”

“No, no, of course I didn’t,” Jean said. “She figured it out by herself.”

“Oh my god, are we that obvious? Does someone else know?” The panic in Marco’s voice was slowly starting to rise, his anxiety becoming more and more prominent.

“Marco, no, it’s because she speaks French,” Jean explained, his hands moving to Marco’s shoulders. “Because I always say romantic things to you in French, remember? She heard and understood them. That’s how she knows. Okay?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want something like this to happen.”

Marco sighed, twisting his hands together in his lap. “Does she care?” he asked softly.

“The only thing about it that pisses me off is that Jean got a boyfriend and I’m still here all alone...” Sasha mumbled, crossing her arms with a huff.

“ _Ta geuele_ _,_ Sasha,” Jean said, glaring at her.

“ _Ta geuele,_ Jean,” Sasha mimicked, screwing her face up at him.

“I’m never taking any of you out anywhere ever again,” Connie concluded, letting out a loud groan. “Holy shit.”

 

* * *

 

The clouds were bright orange, coloured by the setting sun as they hung above the bare trees, contrasting sharply with the still-blue evening sky. Jean had opened his window, and was sitting on his desk beside it, breathing in the late winter air, which was slowly starting to warm up to spring. Marco sat on the chair to his left, twirling Jean’s violin bow around in his fingers.

“Can you believe February’s already almost over?” the freckled boy asked, and Jean nodded, humming.

“It feels like it should still be October,” he said. “But it will be spring soon. It’s already getting warmer.”

“Summer’s gonna be so hot,” Marco whined, letting out a little groan.

“How hot is it here, normally? I wasn’t here for most of summer.”

Marco screwed his face up in thought for a moment. “Around ninety degrees, ish,” he said. “Normally not one hundred degrees, like Connie said.”

Jean looked rather horrified for a second, before realization dawned on his face. “You mean ninety degrees... Fahrenheit, right?”

Marco nodded, laughing. “Yeah, sorry, I always forget that you use Celsius, not Fahrenheit.”

“Just like the rest of the world that isn’t America.”

 Marco scowled at Jean, making a motion like he was going to hit him with the violin bow, before Jean grabbed it from him and put it down by his violin case. “No playing with the bow.”

“But how are you supposed to play your violin if you can’t play with the bow?” Marco asked, looking generally concerned, with his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed.

Jean blinked at him, looking absolutely and utterly disappointed, before getting up and walking out of the room. Marco stayed where he was sitting for a moment, listening as Jean walked down the hall and disappeared, a wide grin on his face.

“Jean?” he called, after a few seconds passed. “Jean! Jean, come back! I’m sorry!”

There was the sound of footsteps, and Jean reappeared in the doorway to his room, his eyes narrowed slightly. “I do not believe you, and I’m leaving forever,” he said, ducking away and vanishing again.

“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” Marco said, rolling his eyes and hopping up out of the chair, going over and peering around the corner of the door into the hallway. “You walked right into that one; you have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I don’t—”

Jean was cut off mid-sentence by his mother, yelling from somewhere in the house, “Jean, do not be a baby! _Oh mon dieu, mon fils._ ”

He shouted back some curt response in French, which got him a bit of a scolding and an equally terse insult. A few seconds later, he was slinking back up the stairs, glaring back down at what Marco assumed to be Manon.

“Did your mom destroy you?” he asked, trying to hold in his laughter.

“I will hit you with my bow,” Jean threatened, his expression a mix of a pout and a scowl.

“Hey, no playing with the bow.”

Jean smacked him.

 

* * *

 

As February ended and March began, the temperature slowly continued to rise. The remaining piles of snow, hidden in the shadows of forests and houses, melted. Buds began to appear on trees and the grass became a bit greener each day. Rain became more and more frequent, often turning into thunderstorms that pummeled the area and filled the sky with lightning.

The morning after one such storm, when the ground was still soaked with puddles, Jean and Marco were walking along the path near Jean’s house, now much different than it had been in the winter.

“Ugh, it’s too wet,” Jean whined as he stepped in a puddle for what seemed like the fiftieth time. “My feet are soaked.”

“Don’t you have rubber boots?” Marco asked, motioning to the garish red boots on his own feet.

“They’re too small,” Jean mumbled, scowling. “And I did not think you were dragging me through the woods. What are we doing here anyways?”

“Walking,” Marco said, smiling cheerfully. “It’s good to just go and walk. Plus, I love walking through the woods after a storm.” He paused, grinning at Jean’s rather unimpressed expression. “And Bea wanted me to come scope out the frog population here—she’s looking to rebuild her colony.”

“Didn’t she kill her last ‘colony’?” Jean asked, hopping over another puddle.

Marco frowned. “They died because she left them outside overnight,” he explained. “I told her that she’s going to have to release these ones before it gets too cold again.”

“Fuck, I hope that does not happen again soon,” Jean mumbled, scowling.

“Oh no, it’s only up from here,” Marco said.

“That almost sounds worse.”

Marco laughed, and they continued on, chatting about random subjects. Every so often Marco would stop and crouch by the side of the path, inspecting some plant or bug or animal. Jean would stand behind him, looking over his shoulder, wondering how he found these things so interesting.

“You know, spring’s my favourite season,” Marco said after one of his stops, standing up and brushing his hands off on his jeans. “There’s just something about it that makes me so happy.” He stopped, thinking for a moment. “Maybe it’s because it starts getting warm again. I like winter, but sometimes it’s too cold for me. I missed being able to go out with my telescope at night and not freezing to death.”

“Spring’s too rainy for me,” Jean said, scowling at the wet ground.

“You don’t like rain?” Marco asked.

Jean nodded. “Especially big storms,” he added, shivering unhappily.

Marco stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes slowly narrowing in thought. “Are you afraid of thunderstorms?” he asked.

Jean turned to stare at him, a rather murderous look on his face.

“You’re afraid of thunderstorms,” Marco repeated, this time stating it as a fact, rather than a question. “Oh my goodness, you’re afraid of thunderstorms.”

“Shut up, Marco,” Jean grumbled, looking back at the ground. “I’m not _afraid_ of thunderstorms, I just do not like them. They are too loud and there’s too much rain and at night when there’s lightning it’s annoying and—”

“And you’re afraid of thunderstorms.”

“I’m not afraid of thunderstorms!” Jean cried, pulling out the first thing he could from his coat pocket—a set of headphones—and chucking them at Marco. “Shut up.”

Grinning, Marco bent down to pick the headphones up. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I believe you. But, honestly, the storms here can get pretty freaky. They scare me, sometimes.”

Jean stopped walking, watching Marco with a horrified look on his face. “How freaky?” he asked, sounding rather nervous.

Marco turned to face him, an actual sympathetic look on his face—he kind of felt bad for teasing him now. “Uh, well, there’s hail sometimes,” he said and, at Jean’s confused expression, continued, “Like, ice that falls from the sky. It can get pretty big, but it’s normally not _too_ huge.”

“Oh, _la grêle,_ ” Jean said, nodding in comprehension.

“Um, yeah, I guess?”

“How often does that happen?”

Marco shrugged. “Not a lot,” he explained. “But, really, you don’t have to worry about the storms. There are measures put in place to make sure no one gets hurt, and the power lines here are built to withstand crazy weather so there’s not too many power outages.” He paused, giving Jean a reassuring smile before reaching out and taking his hand. “Plus, if there’s ever a really big storm, I can look after you.”

Jean rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll be fine.”

Marco’s smile grew wider, and he leaned over, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “The offer still stands, though,” he said. “I’ll protect you.”

“God, you’re so lame,” Jean groaned, though he had a wide grin on his face as he threw his arm over Marco’s shoulders.

 

* * *

 

The day before March break started, Jean and Marco were sitting at a table in the cafeteria as people slowly trickled in from their classes. Marco had Jean’s newest reading assignment in his hands, though instead of coming from his English class it was coming from ESL. Ms. Ral had told them all to choose a book originally written in English that they have never read before, and read it.

“You’ve seriously never read Harry Potter before?” Marco asked, flipping through the copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone that Jean had gotten from the school library.

Jean shook his head. “I don’t know, I just never read it when I was a kid,” he said. “I always thought they sounded dumb when I was little.”

“How could you think Harry Potter sounded dumb?”

“The French name for the first book is _Harry Potter à l’école des sorciers_ ,” Jean explained. “Harry Potter at the wizard school. That sounds so dumb.”

“Well, they’re not dumb,” Marco argued, handing the book back to him. “I have the rest of the series, so you can read them when you’re finished that one.”

Jean groaned, resting his head against the table. “I’m still reading The Maze Runner,” he whined. “This is too many books.”

“It’s two books, and neither of them is super long,” Marco said. “You can do it. I believe in you.”

Jean scowled at the table, before lifting his head up and resting his cheek on the palm of his hand. “You’re dumb,” he mumbled, picking up the Harry Potter book and flipping through it absentmindedly. A few seconds later, he sat up straighter, suddenly remembering something. “Oh yes. My mom wants you to come over for dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Marco looked up, a bit surprised by the sudden invitation. “Yeah, sure, I’d love to.”

“She’s been telling me to ask you for days now,” Jean said. “But I keep forgetting.”

“Well, tell her I’ll be coming over,” Marco said. “I’ve only had dinner at your house once, I think.”

“We eat dinner late, compared to you Americans,” Jean explained. “Around 8pm or 9pm, usually. And because it’s the first time you’re actually coming for dinner, my mom is probably going to do too much, though. Make it seem... big and important.”

Marco smiled. “She’s just being supportive,” he offered.

Jean felt a bit guilty at that; Marco’s mother still knew nothing about their relationship, and Marco seemed certain that if she ever found out she would by disappointed and angry. He was about to say something and apologize, but Eren and Armin suddenly appeared, Eren announcing in a loud voice that he absolutely hated his science class, and that his teacher was an absolute idiot who never knew what he was talking about.

Marco seemed a bit quiet for the rest of lunch.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Marco showed up at Jean’s house around 6pm. Like Jean knew she would, Manon had spent most of the day cleaning and then cooking, despite her son’s multiple insistences that it was just Marco coming over, and she didn’t need to do all this preparing. She didn’t really care, however, pointing out that the house needed to be cleaned anyways.

“Hello, Marco!” she greeted, when he arrived, smiling cheerily as the freckled boy walked through the door. “How are you?”

“I’m excellent,” Marco responded. “Thank you for inviting me over.”

“Oh, goodness, _mon gar_ , you know you are always welcome here,” Manon said. “You almost live here, anyway. It is like your second home.”

Marco laughed, taking off his shoes and putting them by the door. “I guess so, yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I like it here.”

Manon smiled, almost sympathetically. “I am glad to hear that, _mon chèri_.”

They all sat down for dinner soon after that. Manon had made bœuf bourguignon, saying that Marco should have a taste of good French cooking. Of course, however, Jean had to point out that beef stew wasn’t just a French dish, and was a pretty common thing that Americans ate.

“Yes, but they do not eat _real_ beef stew,” Manon had said, insisting that bœuf bourguignon was the best beef stew one could make. “ _Les français le font le mieux._ ”

Dinner passed happily, with talk about school and March break plans.

“Perhaps you can help Jean pack after dinner,” Jean’s father suggested, pouring himself a glass of water. “We are leaving for New Orleans tomorrow and he still has most of his suitcase empty.”

“I’m pretty good at packing,” Marco said, smirking across the table at Jean, who looked rather exasperated, before turning back to Mr. Kirschtein. “How long are you going to be in New Orleans?”

“Most of the week,” Jean’s father answered. “Until Friday or Saturday, I believe.” Looking at his wife, he raised his eyebrows, as if asking her to confirm what he was saying.

“We will be getting back Saturday,” Manon said, nodding.

“That sounds like it’ll be fun,” Marco said. “I went to New Orleans a few years ago—it’s the quite the city.”

“Yes, it will be great, especially if Jean manages to pack in time,” Jean’s father said, giving a pointed look to his son.

“Oh my god.” Throwing his hands up, Jean sighed loudly, looking at the ceiling as if begging someone to come and put him out of his misery.

Jean’s father let out a loud laugh, grinning widely. “Oh, you know I am only kidding, Jean.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Jean said, scowling. “Sure.”

“Don’t worry,” Marco comforted. “I’ll help you finish your packing.”

Manon tsked quietly, shaking her head. “Will you need your boyfriend to help you with everything?” she asked, a wide grin spread across her face. “My goodness.”

“ _J’abandonne_ ,” Jean muttered, burying his face in his hands, while his parents, and even Marco, laughed.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, Jean and Marco sat upstairs in Jean’s room, Marco perched on the bed while Jean kneeled on the floor, folding clothes and putting them away in his suitcase.

“Do you really need a third sweater?” Marco asked as Jean pulled out his light brown striped sweater from his dresser. “You’re only gone for six days.”

“I like sweaters,” Jean argued, looking down at the sweater in his hands with a slight pout. “They’re warm and comfortable.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to Louisiana,” Marco pointed out. “I just don’t want you to boiling to death.”

“I’m packing _prepared_ ,” Jean said. “You bring clothes for all weather, so you are always prepared. You will not be too hot in warm weather, or too cold in cold weather. See?”

“...Okay.” Marco shrugged, before falling back against the bed, dangling his feet off the side.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Jean working and Marco lounging peacefully. After a while, when Jean was mostly finished, he looked over to where Marco was lying, his eyes closed blissfully.

“Hey, Marco,” he said, rather quietly.

Cracking his eyes open, the freckled boy looked towards him. “Mhm?”

“What... What was bothering you last month?” Jean asked.

Marco froze for a second, before slowly sitting up, though he didn’t look back at Jean. “Nothing was really bothering me,” he said, though the tense way he was holding himself told Jean something else.

“Are you sure?” Jean insisted. “I’ve been worried about you for the past few weeks, though you seem much better now.”

“Then it doesn’t really matter,” Marco concluded, his hands clenched tightly together.

“It does, though,” Jean said. “I just want to know... Was it my parents? Or your mom? Or our relationship? What—”

“I was just stressed,” Marco interrupted. “It... didn’t have anything to do with that stuff. It’s better now, okay?”

Jean blinked at him for a few seconds, before nodding. “Yes, okay,” he said. “Alright. I’m sorry.”

Marco nodded. “I should... probably go,” he said, standing. “It’s getting late.”

“...Okay.”

Jean walked him to the door, and watched as he pulled out of the driveway and drove away. 

 

* * *

 

Early the next morning, Jean sat in the airport, waiting to board a flight to New Orleans and texting Marco. He knew his boyfriend wouldn’t be awake yet, as it was just barely 7am, but he wanted to message him and apologize before he got on the plane.

**À: Marco**

**i’m sorry about yesterday. i didn’t mean to upset you. i hope you aren’t mad.**

“ _Que fais-tu?_ ” As he sent the message, Mathieu, the son of his parents’ Belgian friends, the Dumonts, who lived a few houses away and were spending the week with them, leaned over from where he was sitting to see what Jean was doing. “ _T’envoies un message à quelqu’un?_ ” What are you doing? You’re sending a message to someone?

“ _Mon copain,_ ” Jean said, elbowing him away. Mathieu was about ten years younger than he was, and incredibly nosy. He somehow managed to almost constantly get on Jean’s nerves.

Mathieu raised an eyebrow at him. “ _Ton copain?_ ” he asked. “Don’t you mean _ta copine_?”

“No, _mon copain_ ,” Jean insisted. “Marco.”

“ _Mais les garçons peuvent pas sortir avec les autres garçons,_ ” Mathieu argued. But boys can’t go out with other boys.

Beside Mathieu, his older sister, Chloé, who was closer to Jean’s age, groaned, rolling her eyes and reaching over to smack him in the head. “ _Ta gueule,_ Mathieu,” she scolded, glowering at him. “Boys can go out with boys, and girls can go out with girls, if they want.”

Mathieu seemed to consider this statement for a moment. “That actually makes sense,” he said, after a few seconds. “Because if you’re a boy going out with a boy, then you don’t have to deal with stinky girls, like you. Maybe I’ll date a boy when I’m older.”

“ _Si tu veux,_ ” Chloé said, shrugging. Jean just scoffed, shaking his head, before turning his attention back to his phone.

 

* * *

 

Jean didn’t get Marco’s response until he got off the plane in New Orleans, turning his phone off of airplane mode.

**De: Marco**

**I’m not mad at all. Your question just took me off guard. I’m sorry for leaving so suddenly, too.**

**De: Marco**

**I miss you already. :)**

Jean read over the texts several times, trying to figure out whether or not Marco was actually being sincere. He would probably end up calling him later that day, just to make sure he wasn’t still upset and just lying about it.

Sighing, he put his phone back in his pocket, hurrying to catch up with his parents at the baggage claim.

 

* * *

 

“I promise I’m not mad at you.”

Jean stood just outside the hotel entrance, one hand buried in his sweater pocket and the other holding his phone to his ear, listening as Marco spoke.

“I’m sorry I made you worry,” the freckled boy continued, and Jean could hear him fiddling with something. “Or made you think I was mad at you. I was just... surprised.”

“Okay,” Jean said, shuffling his feet against the concrete. “I just wanted to make sure. And I want to apologize again. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine.” Jean could hear the smile in his voice.

“I love you,” he said.

Marco’s voice dropped to almost a whisper as he answered, “I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

The week passed quickly; Jean spent his days running around the city with his parents and the Dumonts. His first St. Patrick’s Day was spent navigating packed streets full of boisterous drunks, tossing around green beads and hats. Marco, who was stuck at home the whole break, often messaged him, wondering how his trip was going. Manon didn’t seem to enjoy her son texting all the time, but she never really did anything about it—she just let him be.

By the time they got back home late on Saturday, Jean was absolutely exhausted. He spent most of Sunday sleeping, until Marco called him in the middle of the afternoon, asking him if he’d done the English work he’d been assigned over the break (he hadn’t). For the rest of the day, they talked as Jean did his work, with quite a bit of help from Marco.

“I do not want to go back to school,” Jean whined, tapping his pencil against his worksheet, asking for the proper conjugation of several verbs. In front of him, he had a website open on his laptop, which talked about some irregular English verbs, and he slowly scanned the page, searching for the right answer.

“Breaks are always too short,” Marco agreed. “But you’ll get to see me again!”

Jean gave a little laugh, putting down his pencil so he could scroll further down the webpage. “I suppose that is the only good thing,” he said.

“I’m the best thing.”

“Yes, you are.”

They kept talking until Marco had to leave.

 

* * *

 

Only a few days after March break ended, the teachers were already talking about final projects and exams, even though they were two months away. Schedules were handed out, and teachers started emphasizing the most important things they would need for their exams.

In ESL, Ms. Ral started toughening up their work, first handing out another diagnostic quiz, like the one they had gotten at the beginning of the year, but this time quite a bit harder. However, compared to the first quiz, their scores were much higher—Annie, who had originally gotten 51%, now had a 72%. Jean got 85%, compared to his earlier 55%. Reiner’s jumped from 83% to 96%, and Bertholdt’s went from 68% to 98% (which absolutely poisoned Reiner).

After that, they were given several worksheets based on what they needed to improve the most; for Jean, that meant vocabulary on top of vocabulary on top of conjugation.

“I’m just trying to prepare you for your English exams,” Ms. Ral said, after Reiner had complained for the dozenth time about all the work. “You’ll be getting the same one as the native speakers, so I don’t want you to go in there, start the exam, and not know what to do. Plus, English is a very useful skill to have; it’s a worldwide language, and could expand your prospects in life tremendously.”

Reiner let out a loud groan, giving his worksheets a glare before resting his head against his desk. Behind him, Annie raised her hand.

“What is ‘prospects’?” she asked, a rather sour look on her face, and as Ms. Ral delved into an explanation of what prospects meant, Jean started looking over the work she assigned to him.

Near the end of class, Ms. Ral sat down with each of them individually, going over their various strengths and weaknesses.

“You know, your English skills are amazingly good, Jean,” she said when she got to him, smiling kindly. “Your speaking and listening skills ave improved so much since the beginning of the year, but you still struggle a bit with reading and writing; especially writing. Though you have gotten much better at both skills. It seems that once you sit down and actually think about things, it all just kind of flies out of you brain. Whereas while you’re speaking or listening, most of the words you need come to your mind almost immediately, and you don’t really worry about whether they’re right or not. It’s once you have the time to worry that you start second-guessing yourself, which messes you up.”

Jean nodded, scuffing his foot absentmindedly along the ground.

“Your vocabulary is also a bit small,” the teacher continued. “Especially when it comes to adverbs and adjectives. I’ve noticed you sometimes mix up the meanings, or just forget the word entirely. But, altogether, I’m not too worried about you; just do some extra reading and writing, and do these worksheets I gave you. You should be perfectly fine.”

Smiling, she stood up, moving on to Annie. When the bell finally rang a few minutes later, Jean was glad to get up and go to science class.

 

* * *

 

“Hm...” Bea hummed thoughtfully, thumping her feet against the cushion of the chair she was kneeling on, her eyes scanning the lit-up iPad screen in front of her, open to a peanut butter cookie recipe. “Marco, you read this, and I’ll get the stuff we need from the fridge and the cupboards.” Passing the iPad to her brother, who was standing beside her, she climbed off the chair she had pushed up to the counter and scurried to the pantry.

Jean watched the two from where he was standing by the oven; almost as soon as he had arrived at Marco’s house that afternoon, he’d been dragged into helping Bea bake cookies, with the promise of a little container of cookies all his own when they were finished.

“What’s the first thing?” the seven-year-old asked, wiggling her fingers to get herself ready for ingredient grabbing.

“Butter,” Marco read, propping the iPad up against the coffee machine.  

Bea hurried to the fridge, grabbing a stick of butter and slamming it down on the counter. “Next?”

“Crunchy peanut butter.”

She ran to the cupboard, stretching to the tips of her toes to reach the jar. “Does smooth work?”

“Yep.”

She smacked it down by the butter. “Next?”

“White sugar.”

She raced back to the cupboard, opening it up and searching for a moment, before dragging out an old Tupperware container full of what could either be flour or sugar—she didn’t stop to check. Hurrying back to the counter, she added it to the quickly growing pile.

“Why are you moving so fast?” Jean asked, watching as Bea scurried for the brown sugar.

“Extreme baking!” she cried, throwing the package of sugar at the rest of the ingredients, before running off to the fridge for some eggs.

“She likes to see how fast she can get all the ingredients,” Marco explained, smirking at Jean’s confused expression. “Her record is just over two minutes.”

“Impressive,” Jean murmured, nodding in approval.

About a minute later, all the needed ingredients were collected, thrown haphazardly together on the counter. Marco gathered up a couple of bowls and some measuring cups, and they were all set.

“What kind of cookies are we making?” Jean asked, looking at the mess of tools and food.

“Peanut butter cookies!” Bea said. “The best cookies in the world!”

Jean furrowed his eyebrows at her. “I’ve never had peanut butter cookies,” he admitted. “They sound very... strange.”

“More like delicious flat circles of heaven,” Bea corrected.

“O... kay.”

“They are really good,” Marco agreed, nodding. “You’re just going to have to try one in about... an hour and a half.”

“They’re going to take that long?” Bea whined.

“You have to put the batter in the fridge for one hour,” Marco explained.

Bea let out a loud groan, falling across her chair melodramatically.

“We could find a shorter recipe,” Marco suggested.

“But then they might not be as tasty,” his sister argued, scowling at him.

“I’m sure they’d be fine,” Marco insisted.

“Unless you mess up, like you normally do.”

“I don’t normally mess up,” the freckled boy argued.

“You do,” Bea said, before turning to Jean, asking, “Do you know what he’s done?”

“No,” Jean said, grinning. “What has he done?”

“He once baked cookies for almost an hour. And another time he put in salt instead of sugar. Then another time he baked cupcakes without the wrapper things. And then _another_ time he put half a tablespoon of cloves in a spice cake instead of half a teaspoon.”

“He sounds like a baking disaster.”

Bea nodded. “He is,” she agreed, and Marco groaned. “The cake was so bad it made your mouth numb.”

“Oh my god, Marco.”

“I was like twelve,” Marco argued. “I didn’t really know the difference, and my mom left me alone to mix all the ingredients together myself. And you,” he turned to Bea, glaring, “you were only two when that happened, so there’s no way you remember it happening.”

“Pain like that leaves scars, Marco,” Bea said.

Jean burst out laughing, while Marco looked rather annoyed. “Oh, you’re so funny,” he said sarcastically, and Bea stuck her tongue out at him.

“Let Jean do the hard stuff,” she told him. “I want these cookies to be perfect.”

“I don’t know how well I would do,” Jean said, but Bea didn’t seem too concerned.

“Anything you do is better than Marco,” she assured him.

“Thanks,” Marco said, frowning at her; she just gave him a wide, toothy smile.

“I will try my best,” Jean said, nodding.

“Try your best at what?” Annabel asked, suddenly walking into the kitchen with a phone pressed to her ear.

“Baking,” Jean explained. “Bea says Marco is terrible.”

“At baking? My goodness, he is,” Annabel said, shaking her head. Jean could faintly hear someone else talking on the other end of the phone, but their voice was too muffled for him to understand anything.

Scowling unhappily, Marco scooped Bea up out of her chair, sitting himself down in it instead and putting her on his lap. “For being so mean, you have to share you seat with me,” he said, smirking slightly as Bea whined, trying to squirm her way out of his grip.

“Mommy, help me!” she cried, though her distress was masked by the giggles that escaped her as Marco started tickling her, running his fingers up and down her sides.

“You look perfectly okay to me,” Annabel said, grinning; the person she was on the phone with said something, and she replied, “Oh, Marco’s just tickling her.”

“Who are you talking to?” Bea asked, talking between gasps for breath as she continued to laugh.

“Gran,” her mother answered.

Marco paused for a moment and Jean, who had been watching him, saw his face pale a bit as he looked up, glancing first at his mother then at his boyfriend. When he saw that Jean was looking at him, he quickly turned his gaze back down towards Bea; seeing her chance, the seven-year-old slipped out of Marco’s grasp, scurrying away to hide behind her mother.

“How’s Gran doing?” Bea asked, and Marco suddenly became very interested in the ingredients, organizing them and laying them out the measuring cups by size.

“She’s doing fine,” Annabel answered. “She says she misses you tons, and can’t wait to see you again soon. Marco, too.”

Marco didn’t acknowledge this, instead unlocking the iPad and looking over the recipe again; he didn’t relax until his mother disappeared upstairs a few minutes later. Putting the iPad down, he turned to Jean, who was watching him quietly.

“So,” he started, managing a forced half-smile. “Are we going to make these cookies?”

“Yes!” Bea yelled, running back to the counter, any threats of more tickling forgotten. “Let’s do this! Come on, Jean, Marco needs your help to make sure he doesn’t mess up.”

“I’m coming,” Jean answered, taking the iPad and reading through the recipe to determine what they had to do first.

A few hours later, as Jean was leaving with a small container of peanut butter cookies, it seemed almost as if nothing had ever happened.

 

* * *

 

One day in early April, Jean was weaving through the halls at school right after the bell rang for lunch, trying to make it to his locker to drop off his history textbook. Right as he got there and started entering his combination, however, Marco appeared beside him, tossing a plastic water bottle from hand to hand.

“Hey,” he greeted, ducking out of the way as Jean swung his locker door open. “Do you have a minute?”

“Yeah,” Jean answered. “Why?”

“My French teacher wants to meet you.”

Jean furrowed his eyebrows at him. “...Why?”

“Because you’re French, and she’s a French teacher,” Marco explained. “And she likes to meet all the French-speaking students that come to this school.”

“Why did she not do this earlier in the year?” Jean asked.

Marco shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “But she still wants to meet you.”

“...Alright.” Tossing the textbook on one of the shelves and closing his locker, Jean turned to face Marco. “Let’s go.”

Marco led him upstairs to the language hallway and into a classroom whose walls were covered in posters, most of them in French with simple little drawings to help with vocabulary or the conjugation of verbs. Sasha was in there, sitting beside a guy Jean didn’t recognize and explaining the conjugation of _faire_ to him. She looked up when they entered, grinning widely and waving.

The French teacher was at her desk, marking something, but she put her pen down when they walked in, standing up with a wide smile on her face.

“ _Salut_ , Marco,” she greeted, before turning to Jean. “You must be Jean.”

Jean nodded. “That is me.”

“ _Moi, je suis Mme. Langnar_ ,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it. “ _C’est très bien de te rencontrer._ ” I’m Mme. Langnar. It’s very nice to meet you.

“ _Toi aussi,_ ” Jean answered. You, too.

Continuing in French, Mme. Langnar said, “I would have liked to have met you earlier, but I didn’t get the chance until now. But I’m still glad I get to do it.”

Jean just nodded again, not really sure what to say; thankfully, Mme. Langnar filled the silence, asking him a barrage of questions.

“ _Marco m’a dit quelque choses de toi, mais pas beaucoup,_ ” she said. Marco told me a few things about you, but not much. “Where in France are you from?”

“ _Parce que mon père est dans le militaire, on déménage beaucoup,_ ” Jean explained. “ _Mais je suis né en Marseille, et mes parents viennent d’Alsace._ ” Because my father is in the military, we move a lot. But I was born in Marseille, and my parents are from Alsace.

“Oh, _oui?_ ” Mme. Langnar asked, nodding. “I visited Alsace when I lived in France; _c’était si belle._ ”

“ _Où avez vous habité en France?_ ” Where did you live in France?

“Paris,” the teacher answered. “I did a year abroad at a university there.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

Marco, seeing that the conversation, having continued in French, wasn’t going to change back to English, went over to where Sasha was sitting, pulling up a chair beside her. Jean watched him for a moment, listening as Sasha explained that she was tutoring the kid, silently willing him not to leave him alone with Mme. Langnar. Of course, he understood why Marco had gone to sit by Sasha; Jean had been stuck in the middle of some solely-German conversations between Reiner and Bertholdt several times before, and it was more than a little uncomfortable. Still, he would have felt much less awkward with Marco beside him.

Mme. Langnar asked him a few more questions about his life, wondering if he was enjoying living in the States, if he found speaking English so much every day difficult, and plenty of other things. After about ten minutes, she figured he’d had enough and started to bring the conversation to a close, but not before inviting him to come talk to her French I class about France.

“It would get you out of that class for a day,” Mme. Langnar offered. “What class do you have during period six?”

“Spanish,” Jean said.

Mme. Langnar nodded. “Well, I’ll call your teacher, and see if she’ll let you out for a day,” she said. “Of course, only if you want to do it.”

Jean thought for a moment. “Yeah, sure, I’ll do it,” he said, shrugging. “It sounds like it could be fun.”

“ _Merveilleux_ ,” the French teacher said, smiling and clasping her hands together. “How about we do it on... Tuesday.”

She talked for a bit about the event, before finally letting Jean leave; Marco got up and came with him, though Sasha stayed behind to finish her tutoring session.

“So, I suppose I’m coming to your class on Tuesday to talk about France,” Jean said as they walked down the hallway, headed for the cafeteria.

“Really?” Marco asked, grinning. “That sounds like it’ll be fun.”

Jean gave a little snort, shrugging. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy it, I’m sure,” Marco insisted. “And Sasha, Eren, and I will be there to ask you tons of questions.”

“Even better.”

 

* * *

 

Tuesday afternoon, Jean sat at the front of the French class, watching as students came in and sat down, chatting amongst themselves. Marco and Sasha came in about three minutes before class was set to start, and stood near the front talking with him until the bell rang. Eren arrived a few seconds later, hurrying to his seat beside Marco and trying to ignore Mme. Langnar’s unhappy glares. Once everyone was settled in their spots, she took attendance, before standing and walking to the front of the room.

“So, everyone,” she said, clapping her hands to get her students’ attention. “Today, we’ll be taking a break from learning French to learning a bit about France itself. And, for that, I’ve invited Jean to our class.” Motioning to Jean, he gave an awkward little wave; from the back of the class, Sasha clapped.

 “I know some of you know Jean,” Mme. Langnar continued. “Like Sasha. But for those who don’t, he’s a student at our school from France.” She paused for a moment, before continuing, “So, listen well to what he has to say, because I might test you on it.”

There was a collective groan from the class. “I’m kidding, don’t worry,” Mme. Langnar assured them, before going back over to her desk and motioning to Jean. “Now, I’ll hand it over to Jean.”

 “Uh, so...” he started, not entirely sure what to say. He and Mme. Langnar had discussed things he should talk about, though she hadn’t really told him how to start—so he just went with the first thing that came to his mind, “I’m Jean, and I’m from France, that very lovely European country over there.” Turning to the front wall, he pointed to the map of France that was pulled down across the board. “You probably know some about France already, but if you don’t... there it is. I’m not sure how big it is exactly, but it is _much_ smaller than the United States, and it has a population of about... sixty-six million people. It’s divided into 27 regions, which are kind of likes states, and then the regions are divided into departments.

“I am, technically, from Provence-Alpes-Côte D’Azur. I’m not sure what the English name is, but a lot of times it is called PACA. It is this little area here,” going up to the map, he drew a circle around a small portion of southern France with his fingertip, “by Italy and the Mediterranean Sea. I was born in Marseille, right here, but I grew up all over France, from Normandie,” he pointed to the top of the map, “to Paris, to Aquitaine.” He moved back to the bottom of the map, this time on the left instead of the right.

“Have you ever been to the Eiffel Tower?” someone asked, raising their hand as they spoke.

“I saw it every day for almost three years when I lived in Paris,” Jean answered. “But I have only visited once, because it is always very busy and costs money.”

“Have you ever eaten escargots and frog legs?” another person asked. “Like, is that a real thing that people eat?”

“Yes, it is a real thing,” Jean said. “I have never eaten any of those, because I think it is disgusting. It is not actually as common as you would think.”

When no more questions were asked, Jean continued, “So, euh, school in France is a bit different than it is here. First, we do not have grades in France. For the first three years, from ages 3 to 6, you are in an _école maternelle_ , or nursery school. The ‘grades’ in _les écoles maternelles_ are _petite section, moyenne section,_ and _grande section_ , which mean little section, middle section, and big section.

“Then you go off to primary school— _école primaire_ —for the next five years. The grades then are called _cours préparatoire, cours élémentaire première année, cours élémentaire deuxième année, cours moyen première année,_ and _cours moyen deuxième année_. Much more complicated than grade one, grade two, grade three.

“After primary you go to a _collège_ ; not college like here in the US. It is more like junior high. Here the grade names get much more simpler, but instead of numbers going up they are numbers that go down; the older you are, the lower your grade. So in a _collège_ the grades are _sixième, cinquième, quatrième,_ and _troisième_ —sixth, fifth, fourth, and third.

“Then you go to a _lycée_ , which is a high school. The grades there are _seconde, première,_ and _terminale_ —second, first, and terminal. If you are in grade eleven here, you will be in _première_ in France. Grade twelve, _terminale_.”

A kid near the front, who Jean recognized as being the boy that Sasha was tutoring the other, asked, “Why do you do that?”

“We like things to be complicated,” Jean answered.

“Yeah, I didn’t really understand most of what you just said,” the kid admitted, and his friend beside him scoffed, shaking his head.

“Were you even paying attention?” his friend asked, and the kid glared at him, opening his mouth to spit out a retort.

“Samuel, Thomas,” Mme. Langnar snapped, stopping them from going any further. “That’s enough.” Jean smirked as the two slowly turned to face the front again, looking slightly wounded by the scolding.

The rest of the class passed quickly, with Jean talking about the basics of French life and culture and answering any questions, usually shouted out at random with a partially-raised hand to let him know who was talking. Throughout the whole thing, Marco sat quietly in his seat, looking amused as Jean explained the learning of foreign languages in France and the meaning of the French flag’s colours.

Eren, on the other hand, was not so quiet, asking questions every five minutes, some of them obviously just to annoy Jean as much as possible. He spent the whole class with a wide, shit-eating grin spread across his face, like he absolutely loved every moment of it all.

When the bell finally rang, and the students started heading out the door into the hallway, Jean hung around for a few seconds as Mme. Langnar thanked him.

“You did a very good job,” she said, giving him a wide smile. “I don’t want you to be late for your next class, so I’m going to let you go, but I hope I see you again soon.”

Jean nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I suppose I will see you more often now.”

Mme. Langnar gave him a short wave as he walked out of the class with Marco and Eren; Sasha had already disappeared, probably to try and make it to the other side of the building in time for her next class.

“That was amazing, Jean,” Eren said as they walked down the hall. “You managed to make that horribly boring class a little bit less boring.”

“I’m glad I was some help,” Jean said.

“That class isn’t boring,” Marco argued, and Eren scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but you actually like it,” he pointed out. “I, on the other hand, regard that class as the worst mistake of my life.”

“You just gotta be optimistic,” Marco told him

“I just tell myself every day that there’s only a month and a half left until the school year’s over,” he said, heaving a loud sigh. “It kind of works.”

“It will all be over soon,” Jean assured him.

“That sounds really morbid,” Marco said.

“School’s a morbid thing,” Eren mumbled, before spinning on his heel and walking away from them, backwards. “Well, I have to go find Armin to borrow his calculator for math class, so I’ll see you guys later!” Turning back to face the front, he walked off down the hall, while Marco and Jean headed towards the stairs, going down to Jean’s locker.

Once they got there, and Jean was digging around for his geography textbook, Marco leaned against the locker beside him, saying, “You know, one day you should take me to see all those places in France you were talking about. Especially the ones by the ocean.”

Jean smiled, grabbing his binder and a pencil. “I’ll bring you out where you can see the stars,” he said. “Away from the big cities full of tourists.”

“That sounds great,” Marco said and, for a second, it seemed almost like he was going to lean in and kiss Jean. But then he seemed to think better of it and stepped back a bit, tightening his hold on his books. “I should, um, be getting to class... I’ll see you later.” Giving a quick nod, he turned and walked away, hurrying down the hall and up the stairs.

Jean sighed, closing his locker and heading the other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here she is boys
> 
> _Penses-tu que cette voyage était une bonne utilisation de ton temps_ : Do you think this trip was a good use of your time?
> 
> _vraiment_ : really
> 
> _Oh mon dieu, mon fils_ : Oh my God, my son
> 
> _Les français le font le mieux_ : The French do it best
> 
> _J'abandonne_ : I give up
> 
> _Mon copain_ : my boyfriend
> 
> _ta copine_ : your girlfriend
> 
> _Si tu veux_ : If you want
> 
> _Salut_ : Hello
> 
> _c’était si belle_ : it was so beautiful
> 
>  
> 
> __

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary of French Words (if you haven't already googled them):
> 
>  _mon chou_ : a French term of endearment; it literally means "my cabbage"
> 
>  _ouais_ : yeah
> 
>  _Et si je compter, je compterai pour toi//Je te conterai mes histoires//Et je compterai les moutons, pour toi..._ : And if I count, I will count for you//I will tell you my stories//And I will count sheep, for you... (from _Sommeil_ by Stromae)
> 
>  _Bien, excusez moi._ : Well, excuse me.
> 
>  _D'accord_ : Okay
> 
>  _Au revoir_ : Goodbye (literally 'until I see you again')
> 
>  _Pédé_ : Fag; faggot


End file.
